


Ravenclaw's Regrets

by carloabay



Series: At Her Own Peril [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Parents, Blood Purism, Blood and Injury, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Lesbians, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Order of the Phoenix Missions (Harry Potter), Physical Abuse, Quidditch, a sense of impending doom, jily friendship, some inadvisable shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:07:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26548006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carloabay/pseuds/carloabay
Summary: Summer drags on, then into sixth year, which brings complications and nasty characters. Io Brewsam is tired out, but trouble isn't done with her yet, and neither is Sirius Black.
Relationships: Evan Rosier/Original Female Character(s), James Potter & Lily Evans Potter, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Marlene McKinnon/Dorcas Meadowes, Sirius Black & Remus Lupin & Peter Pettigrew & James Potter, Sirius Black/Original Female Character(s), Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: At Her Own Peril [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767763
Comments: 25
Kudos: 7





	1. The Room Where It Happens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One particular night of the summer holidays is uncomfortably warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm putting Hamilton references in here. I hate myself, too
> 
> (This will make so much more sense if you read Gryffindor's Girl first)

The floor of Darwin Mistry's bedroom was a cold, lonely place to sleep, but Io supposed she'd take creaking boards over ghostly cold rooms any day.

His blinds didn't shut completely, so stripes of city-yellowed moonlight flung themselves haphazardly across her face, strong, bright fingers prising open her eyelids. Io threw herself onto her side and pressed her face into her shining pillow, scowling one-eyed at the floor.

Darwin snuffled loudly from his bed, swaddled in thick duvets. His room was a pentagon, and felt to Io a little like a prison cell. One window, barred with the crooked wooden blinds, and gap-toothed floorboards, and walls stuffed with shelves and cupboards and Quidditch trophies and memorabilia. Behind all the colour, the walls were a dull grey.

Darwin had draped the Indian National Quidditch Team's flag over a corner of his wardrobe, and there was a letter from the International Quidditch Association pinned through the flag and into the wardrobe. He hadn't stopped talking about the letter all summer holidays: his friend's uncle, having worked at the IQA, had written up a letter of recommendation after seeing Darwin play at Hogwarts, and so it sat there on the wardrobe, ready to be duplicated and sent off the moment Darwin was ready for trying out with bigger teams.

Darwin's black and yellow Hufflepuff robes, encrusted in mud, were thrown carelessly over the top of the door, creased into the frame. A glimpse of the warm yellow light from the hall danced through the fabric. 

Half his drawers were open, clothes spilling joyfully onto the floor, and a creased, faded poster of Praful Khosla, the Indian team's star Beater, spread itself over the peeling grey paint on the wall that Io was staring aimlessly at. Khosla grinned glossily back at the camera, every so often with a wink and a two fingered salute, or a blown kiss and a devil-may-care grin. Io was tired of his face already.

Io dug her short fingernail into the board gap by her head and blew a few pieces of hair off her forehead. The night was sticky and quiet and hot, and there was no way in hell that she was getting to sleep.

Darwin grunted wearily, turned over, and flung his arm over the side of the bed. His fingers brushed the floor behind Io's hair and she scowled at Khosla, who was now yawning and starting to doze off against the side of the poster, leaning on his Beater's bat.

Io sat up, pushed her covers aside, and rolled onto the hard floor. She pushed a knee into place, then rose, wiggling the balls of her feet over the cold wood. She took a few tentative steps towards the door, trying to avoid the creaking bits of plank, and dug her fingers around the edge of the doorway: the handle rattled, and she couldn't wake Darwin. Or his parents, for that matter.

The door swung open silently, spilling light into the dusky room, and Io slipped through, pulled the door closed behind her, and set off down the hall with feet pressed into the junction between the floor and the wall to avoid the noise of the middle bit.

The kitchen light was still on: bright white and cold, and Io crossed to the window, feet sticking to the freezing tiles. The city outside glittered at ground level, and then in the sky, it glowed like gold. She’d always thought the city light was far more beautiful than the plain darkness of Turpford. 

Home. 

For some reason.

Nothing could beat one particular sunrise, though. Io liked to call it the Animagus Sunrise, and she could still feel Peter’s warm weight and Sirius’ hand on her knee and the heavy snore that was James and the chilly, exquisite light of the sun blindly feeling its way over the top of the mountains-

"We can't!" The voice was barely louder than an anguished hiss, but it split the silence of the flat like a blade into an apple. Io turned away from the window, startled out of her dream-like memory, and cocked her head towards the sound. It had faded again, just a low crackle of whispers, snaking out from the golden gap between the door of her aunt and uncle's room and the unsteady floorboards.

Outside, someone leaned on their car horn, and in the distance, music was blaring obnoxiously loud, streaming over the tops of the buildings.

Io put her hands in her pockets and deliberated for a second.

"There's a _war_ starting, Kent!" The words bit through the dark. Io twitched at that sudden, desperate sentence, and made up her mind.

Her aunt and uncle's room was opposite the kitchen, and the door didn't quite fit in the frame. Io crossed the kitchen and stepped out into the wood-floored corridor, right up to the door. Through the gap, she could see her Aunt Kent, fingers tangled in her own hair, bent over a splash of papers that were spread across the bed.

They looked like bills, important letters. Money was tight here. Io had already known that. But there wasn't anywhere else she could live. 

"We can't just send her back..." Kent sighed, and Io's heart twisted painfully. They would hand her back over to her mother, once again, and everything she'd wanted to run from would start over. But she couldn't stay here, draining their food and their time and their money.

There was a soft thud of large feet, and Io's Uncle Kabra rounded the edge of the bed to kneel beneath his wife, reaching up to grip her shoulder.

"I know," he said, gravely. The light gleamed on the silver streak in his hair. "I know, I know. But we barely have enough to feed ourselves, Kent, let alone another kid-"

"What if she got a job?" Kent tried, shrugging his hand away. "Her and Darwin, what if they went and got a job, Muggle jobs..." she trailed off, and Kabra sat back on his heels.

"She can't get a job," Kabra replied, in a low tone that seemed to make the floorboards shake beneath Io's feet. She leaned closer to the door, almost scared to know more.

"Why-why?" Kent replied, blinking wetly down at her husband. Kabra bent his head, shook it slowly.

"Dumbledore said..." he managed, and something enraged snapped at Io's throat. How dare he? Dumbledore had no business anywhere other than Hogwarts, the useless sack of beard.

"Pfft," Kent hissed. " _Dumbledore_ ," she said, derisively. "If he wasn't the founder of the Order, I'm fairly sure a few of us would have finished him off by-"

"She gets into fights," Kabra interrupted. "She duels people without thought. She's too proud, too volatile to be loose in Muggle London."

"She's not a _bomb_ , Kabra," Kent snapped back.

"And she's too well known to be working in magical London," Kabra carried on, like he hadn't heard Kent say anything at all. Io pushed her forehead against the corner of the door frame, right in the centre, where the scar from the stone fountain was, like a jagged stain across her face.

"And you know all our politics now?" Kent replied snappishly. "You're suddenly the expert?"

"Kent," he said, almost pleadingly, and she waved a hand, pressing her forearm to her eyes.

"I'm sorry. You're right. But...can't we- we can keep her for a little longer, can't we?" Kent tried.

"We don't have enough to keep her fed and keep her safe here," Kabra said, resting his hands lightly on Kent's knees. She sighed.

"I know." She pulled her hands away from her face and looked up, and the half of Io's eye that was lit up in the gap of the door caught in Kent's gaze. Io blinked. She couldn't step away, not now. 

Kabra rose to his feet at Kent's nod, and reached for the door, inched it open. Io curled her toes in, and tucked her chin into the neck of her T-shirt.

"You're going to send me back?" she managed. Kabra stared for a second, and then he put a hand, heavy, on her shoulder. Before Io could flinch away from the contact, he slipped the other arm around her back and pulled her into a hug.

Her face squished into his chest, and his hand settled on the back of her neck, warm and rough and comforting. He smelled like paper and soap. Io sniffed, telling herself _not_ to cry, and Kabra held her just a little tighter.

"I'm sorry, Io," he said. He pulled away from her, rearranging himself, and Io could tell what he was doing. Hands by his side, palms outward. Slumping slightly. Making himself less threatening, in case she got scared, in case she broke down like that night outside under the moon, her mother's letter floating innocently in the silver water.

In case all her broken edges started to show. Io dashed her eyes dry with the shoulder of her T-shirt.

"Can't I go to Dad?" she mumbled, already knowing the answer. Kabra and Kent shared a look.

"Maybe," Kabra said agreeably. "How about for now, you go to bed and try and get some sleep, okay? We can figure this out in the morning." Io's eyes flickered to Kent, and Kent offered her a wan smile in lieu of comfort.

"Ok," Io said, with a conscious effort to loosen her shoulders. "Goodnight." Kabra smiled benevolently and as Io turned away, he closed the door on her, gentle.

She walked back down to Darwin's room, at the end of the hall, and she inched the door open. The bar of light from the corridor fell across Darwin's nose and he grumbled sleepily, smacking his lips.

Io lay down on the mattress, next to dozing Praful Khosla, and tried to ignore the sounds of the city, the light striping across the uneven floorboards, the snuffle of Darwin's breath. It wasn't easy.

Eventually, though, the night got the best of her. Io fell asleep, fitfully, nightmarishly, but it was sleep, for the first time that holiday. 

Maybe it was something to do with the owl on the window, or the comfort of the night's heat, or maybe it was the letter that came the next morning, innocent and square and flat on the kitchen table, addressed to Miss Io Brewsam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey, look who's back with a brand new story!! 
> 
> Again, if I've done anything wrong, feel free to point it out, and otherwise, kudos and comment are SO welcome!!


	2. Riddle Me You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paris has a certain kind of charm, and his name is Evan Rosier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evan! li0nheart, the description in this chapter is mostly for you 😂

Three days. Chiquenaude didn't fly that slow. Evan was draped across his silk covers with his face half-drowned in his pillow, blandly staring at his pocket watch. It ticked innocently on top of his dresser, dripping the seconds away as if through a linen bag.

The afternoon sun was licking up the room in fiery waves, like the sun was squeezing her shoulders through the huge open windows.

The wallpaper was curling in the corner above Evan's head. Not a surprise: the house was centuries old, and the house elves were getting far too old for stepladders.

Evan dug his short thumbnail under the edge of his signet ring, pushing up and up until it flicked off, spinning gracelessly into the air, dully glinting in the magnificent light of the sun. He caught it in his fist, and rested his hand, palm up, on the pillowcase, to study the ring.

The inside was shiny and smooth, slipped on and off of generations of Rosier fingers, and the signet was elegant and simple. Tasteful, light. None of that rough, heavy English shit, with their thick lines and heavy-handedness.

His hair was longer than it had ever been, cut short along the sides and back, but flowing down to his chin from on top, and now, as he lay on his side, it draped across his cheek in individual strands. Evan huffed out of the corner of his mouth and it floated for a second, then settled comfortably across his face once more.

"Evan?" The door started to inch open, scraping slightly against the floorboards. Evan glared at it as it opened, screwing his face into horrific expressions, making rude hand gestures and mouthing curse words. Then Felix poked his head around the door and Evan fell instantly back into his bored, graceful composure.

"Quoi?" Evan snapped, glancing quickly at the watch, as if he hadn't been watching it intently all afternoon.

"Tu dois venir en bas," Felix said, eyelids fluttering in the bright light. "Papa-"

"Vas-tu en déjà?" interrupted Evan, and Felix stuttered to a stop.

"Non." There was dust settling on the window sill. "Demain," Felix added. Evan sat up, slowly, grasping at the iron bedframe to give himself a crutch. One side of his mouth was dry, and his hair was sticking up at odd angles at the back. The room turned to black and blue patches for a second, and Evan blinked it away.

"D'accord," he said, waving a hand, and Felix left, not bothering to close the door behind him. Evan scowled after him and then glanced down at the watch one more time.

The top four buttons of his shirt were undone, and he'd crumpled the silk by lying on it all day. His forgotten Potions book thumped off his leg and onto the floor, the spine stretching the pages open to number forty-three. Evan ignored it.

His cupboard was open, and the ornate mirror set inside was burning and shining with the flashes of sunlight. The city hummed outside the window, magical Paris right below the sill, and then further out, the cars and buses and business of the Muggle city chattered dimly, barely noticeable. Evan's father liked to complain about the Muggle noise, but it was only really there if you listened for it.

Evan slid off the high-set bed and onto the floor, flattening a careless hand over his hair in a vague attempt to rearrange it. He reached the door and heaved it a little further open with his hip, doing up his buttons as he stepped out into the corridor. 

Truc, the oldest house elf, crossed from the linen cupboard to the basket he'd left on the landing, without acknowledging Evan, shifting his crisp sheet more securely over his shoulder. He was deaf, though, so it didn't matter. If it were any other elf, someone would have kicked them until they learnt the error of their ways.

Evan waited until Truc had passed, and then he took the stairs down to the next floor. The door to the parlour was open, and mild, quiet English chatter was issuing from inside. Evan fixed his collar, tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, and walked in.

Almost immediately, the sunbeams from city-view windows streamed into his eyes and Evan almost flinched away, blinking back the sting of tears from the bright assault. The room was full of purple Moly pipe smoke, and the bitter-sweet smell made Evan's head spin instantly. He slipped his signet back onto his finger and straightened his spine.

"Père," Evan said, manoeuvring to a chair where the light was less harsh. "Bon aprés-midi." His father was silhouetted against the window, his cloak draped over his shoulders, and he was struggling with the silver claspings. In this light, his pale face was wax-thick and strong, shining glossily. Evan thought of a remark about the lamp oil and his father's facial routine, and had to bite it back.

"Lía," his father snapped out, and from somewhere in the heavy-aired room, Lía Rosier moved up to him, gently pushing his fingers away so that she could do the catch for him. "Thank you, chérie," he said. Evan rested his head on the back of the plush chair and curled his fingers around the end of the armrest and watched this exchange with, outwardly, nothing more than blank boredom.

Lía was Mexican, related strongly to the Selwyn family, and perhaps the most beautiful woman in Paris, even at forty five years old. This fact, Evan's father never relented to comment on. Evan had Lía's nose and her large eyes, and her tendency to subtly re-route her situation around regulations or barriers or people that she felt didn't suit her.

Édouard Rosier, on the other hand, was thick-chested and weakly handsome and always had a faint look of smugness around his eyes.

Lía kissed her husband's jaw, which was as far up as she could reach, and then she retreated to the table to tidy away the goûter from that afternoon.

I missed goûter, Evan thought, with a sort of melancholy carelessness. Édouard watched Lía go with fondness palpable on his face, and then he turned to Evan.

"Evan," he said.

"Père," Evan repeated, but Édouard held up a hand.

"English, please," he commanded, and Evan tilted his head in way of agreement. "I'm leaving today for Druella's. Your mother and brother will follow shortly after. I am entrusting the house to you, and as it is not a remarkable task, I am sure you will excel at not destroying the place." 

"Of course, my captain," Evan said, injecting a sort of French sarcasm into his words. Édouard's nose twitched like a rabbit's.

"Au revoir, my boy," he said heavily, and Evan climbed to his feet to shake his father's hand.

"I suppose I'll see you on the other side of the weekend," Evan said, attempting to ignore the anticipation of having the whole house to himself. Hell, he had the whole of _France_ to roam about in once his family were gone.

"Be good," Édouard said, with a twinkle in his eye, and then he turned with a slice of his cloak through the smoky air, and left.

†††††††††††††††††††††

The bird was called Chiquenaude, according to Evan's letter.

Io was first into the kitchen that morning, barely an hour after first light and already dressed, and she picked up the letter with wary confusion. She turned it over, digging the sharp points into her palms until they folded into dog-ears.

There was a wand-blast below the window, startling Io, and she dropped the letter accidentally. It slid under the table and she stalked to the window and hauled up the sash to poke her head out.

The morning was mild and bright. A plastic recycling bin lay on its side, three stories down, and two kids were wrestling on the floor for possession of a wand far too big to be a toy.

They were giggling, crying at each other in Gujerati. Io caught a few words, having picked it up around the apartment over the years.

"Give! Give!" one squealed in Gujerati, and the other tugged hard. The wand emitted a sudden, high-pitched screech like a kettle and the two kids rolled over and over, around on the concrete.

"Heya!" Io snapped, and the kids looked up. She pointed to the wand. "Khataranāka!" She tripped over the letter order a little bit, but the kids seemed to get the idea and they struggled to their feet and ran, still tugging the wand between them, scattering cardboard and milk bottles as they scrambled over the spilt recycling. 

The sound of tiny feet receded, and Io drew her head back inside and closed the window, careful to fasten it properly: Pogrebins were rife in this area, and last summer, Io had been roped into cleaning out the floorboards for two days with Darwin as punishment for divebombing above the trees on Hampstead Heath on broomsticks. It hadn't been fun, or nice-smelling.

The letter, then. She got on her hands and knees and slid it out from under the low table with the tips of her fingers. It practically floated on the clean floor.

She ripped it open, tossed the envelope aside, and unfolded the paper. Cream coloured, high quality.

_Dear Io,_

His handwriting was unfamiliar. She'd never cared to look at it before, but it was small and the letters were joined with long lines. Eight words were so wide and short, they took up a whole line of the letter.

_Paris is a little grey, sometimes. Every great romance story ends in Paris, doesn't it? I'm afraid the only romance for me here is the acknowledgement the cat gives me, and that's sallow at best._

He'd drawn a little sad face below this sentence. Io tried hard not to grin like an idiot.

_Nothing happens here, day after day. Sorry to be so dreary. My family are leaving soon, so I'll be home alone. Maybe we could Floo? Rosier Residence, Paris._

_Write me,_

_Evan_

_P.S. the bird's name is Chiquenaude. He likes cheese crackers._

"Who's the letter from, your boyfriend?" Darwin had crept up behind her, and he seized the letter, tugging it from between her fingers. Io swung around and snatched at it, but Darwin held it high above her head and restrained her with one hand. "Love letters, Iona? Not your style..."

"Give it back, you bastard!" Io growled, leaping for the letter. Darwin wiggled it tantalisingly, a smile growing.

"Who's it from?"

"Give it!"

"Who's your boyfriend?" Darwin sung, narrowing his eyes as he tried to read the letter. "Who's Evan?" 

"Fuck off!" Io screamed, planting a foot on his knee and launching herself up. She grabbed the letter, crumpling the expensive parchment and ripping the corner slightly, and she landed badly, tripping over her shoe's laces. She stumbled back, panting, and stuffed the letter quickly into her bra, sticking her tongue out at Darwin.

"Evan Rosier?" he gasped, eyes wide. "Isn't he a Slytherin?"

"Go fuck yourself," Io snapped rudely, and then she shoved her way past him and ran to the bathroom, slamming the door closed behind her and throwing the bolt across. Darwin thumped into it half a second later, throwing his fists against the flimsy wood.

"Let me in or I'll tell Mamī!"

"Go ahead!" Io yelled. Darwin went silent, and Io cringed with regret. Then, from the other side of the door...

"Mamī! Io's dating Evan Rosier!"

"Shut up!" Io screamed, grabbing the nearest shampoo bottle and throwing it full force at the door. Darwin laughed and kicked the lock from the other side, rattling the door in its frame.

"Come out, come out, Iona!" he called. Io climbed up onto the toilet and then onto the thin window sill, and reached for the rusty latch. Darwin thumped into the door again, slamming his palms against it. Io wiggled the latch, and it squeaked and creaked and then sprang open.

The window swung outwards, wide open, welcoming the city's morning with a groan of old wood and plaster. Somewhere in the distance, someone was yelling, and there was a pixie sat on the edge of the gutter, two floors above, swinging its ankles over the side. The owl Evan had sent, Chiquenaude, was settled comfortably on Darwin's bedroom window sill, and he looked over at Io with startlingly dark eyes, and hooted softly.

Far off, in Muggle London, a lorry honked, and magical vines were curling quickly around the drainpipe that was just to Io's left. Someone was brewing Pepper-Up, and mingled with the sharp sting of mint in the air was the warm swell of rosemary bread.

"Io?" Darwin called. Io pulled her head back into the bathroom, shaking off the fresh morning outside, and seized a toothbrush to throw at the door. "Io!" Darwin whined, and she chucked it. It clattered off the wood and he sniggered.

Io turned back to the window, sticking her legs out, left, then right. The letter tickled her skin like a promise. She reached for the drainpipe, knuckles skimming over the greying, night-cooled wall, and dug her fingers into the thick vines that were strangling the pipe. 

With a leap of courage and a spurt of adrenaline, she shifted off the windowsill and swung her body round, other hand finding the curve of the pipe and clinging to it. For a second she dangled, three stories high above a courtyard of concrete and steely weeds, and then the vines slipped around her ankles and tightened like harnesses.

She started to lower herself down, forcing herself not to check over her shoulder, and soon enough, her muscles were tight with strain. Hand after foot after hand after foot, red rust staining the lines of her palms, Chiquenaude the owl staring down at her.

For one inconceivable moment, born of the rush of hanging twenty feet above concrete, Io felt lonely. She missed Elwood, who would be falling asleep in the Owlery at Hogwarts now. She missed Lily, who would be waking with a cup of tea, and Remus, who would be surrounded by his parents and James and Peter.

She missed Sirius, too. She missed Evan, all the way across the sea in France, waiting for her letter reply, maybe. Sly and bright and missing her, as well.

The vines carried her the last few feet, and Io touched down on the concrete and shook her melancholy away. Darwin's yells were still drifting through the open window, becoming increasingly panicked, and Io grinned at the little thrill of freedom, of magical London opening up in front of her like a secret book.

There was a Floo in the Magical London Library, and that was a half hour walk from here. Io unfolded the letter, scanning the words again, Evan's name, his demand of _write me_ , tracing the letters with her own thoughts until his handwriting was burnt securely into her brain.

Then she started walking.

And high above, Chiquenaude took off with a leap, loftily gliding above her, dipping into slow circles like a preying kite.

†††††††††††††††††††††

It cost three Sickles for a twenty minute Floo call. Io dug through the pockets of her jeans while she waited, and came up with three Sickles and enough money left over for an ice cream down in Diagon Alley.

The man in the queue in front drew his head from the fire with a scowl and a rude gesture, and then he kicked the coals and stormed away. Io raised an eyebrow, and stepped up to the grate.

She fed the Sickles into the box, and it ground for a second, emitting small purple sparks and the smell of ozone, and then a metal flap fell open and poured a measured amount of powder into the bowl beneath before flipping closed again.

"Please use all of the powder," the house elf at the desk said, from across the room, and Io almost jumped. The elf gave her a narrow look, and returned to their book.

Io tipped the powder into her palm, silt-like and soft, and she turned to the grate with Evan's address on her tongue.

She hesitated. Only for a moment. Then she flicked mascara dots off an eyelash, fixed her hair, and threw the powder into the grate.

"Rosier residence, Paris!"

The fire billowed, green and hungry, and Io dropped to her knees on the stone, and thrust her head in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> La chiquenaude means 'flick'. :) ❤️
> 
> Also I've been speaking English for way too long, so the formation of my French may seem a bit Anglicised, forgive me Joan for I have sinned :')
> 
> ALSO I don't speak Gujareti, my translation comes from Google (don't hate), i meant to say 'dangerous', if you do speak Gujareti (did I spell it right?) and I said something different, lmk ❤️


	3. Home Sweet Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Io and Evan talk after two weeks apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lesbeans :)
> 
> Also Evan :)

"Evan?" For a second, the world was a warm, ashy, woollen green, and then shapes juddered into vision, sharp corners of walls and furniture, and a graceful figure reclining lazily on a long, low sofa.

"Hello, Brewsam," he said. Io grinned.

"Good to see you, too." Evan lolled his head back on the arm of the sofa. It looked like silk.

His hair was longer and lighter than it had been the last time she'd seen him. The light of the room was sickly, dim, expensive; it cloaked his face, and she could see each part of his face in sharp relief, those high-class glass-cut cheekbones, the deep hollows of his eyes. Strong nose. She remembered how he used to look down on her, eyes like two beams of shadow along the line of his nose.

Evan tilted his head and his jawline appeared, a harsh line in a room full of murky shapes.

"It's been a while," he said, and his voice landed Io rudely back in the conversation.

"It's been two weeks," she snorted. "You _are_ a melodramatic li'l baby, aren't you?" Evan rolled his eyes.

"That's rude. Where are you, by the way?"

"London's Magical Library," she said. "I got--" she extracted her head from the fire, dizzy and blinking, to check the time from the large clock hanging over the desk, and then leaned back in, shaking off nausea-- "eighteen minutes."

"How'd you get there?" Evan exclaimed. "I thought you lived in Turpford."

"On house arrest at Darwin's in London," Io said carelessly. "Took the bathroom window out. Where's your family?" Evan's lip twisted.

"Gone to visit the Blacks," he said, with barely concealed disgust, and Io's heart did a funny little dance for a strange moment.

"The Blacks?"

"Cousin Druella, not your boyfriend-"

"He's _not_ my boyfriend-"

"-and they took Felix with them, so I have the house to myself." Evan spread his arms with a crooked smile. Io paused.

"He ain't my boyfriend."

"Ah, oui. No labels, pardonne-moi." 

"Fuck _off_ , you French bastard."

"You called me, you Welsh cow."

"Didn't _Mère_ ever teach you how to treat a lady?" Io mocked, drawing out the French word with an exaggerated accent. Evan laughed, tipping his head back against the arm of the sofa, and Io grinned despite herself.

"Horrible pronunciation," Evan said, meeting her eyes across the room and through the flicker of the green fire.

"How's your summer been?" Io asked, after a moment that was entirely too long to be natural. Evan made a face.

"Hot."

"You're _full_ of conversation this morning," Io teased. "Come on, what's got your wand in a knot?"

"I'm tired of you already," Evan sighed, a small smile giving him away. "How many minutes do you have left?" he asked, and this time, his voice was softer. Io extricated herself from the fire once more to check, and sighed before throwing herself back in.

"Ten."

"Did you feed Chiquenaude?" Evan asked, and Io snorted. Ash flew up her nose and she coughed, and her eyes started streaming. Embarrassed, she wiped her face quickly and tried not to flush. Evan was holding back a grin.

"Nope. Too busy escaping from my psycho cousin," she said, swiping tears off her cheeks.

"Good save," Evan said, and Io made a face at him. "He'll needle you until you do feed him, by the way. He's annoying that way." He seemed to consider something for a second. "A bit like you, actually." 

"Ah, cheers," Io croaked, spitting soot out onto the logs. "Had anymore meet-ups with your Death Eater pals lately?" Evan's grin faded, quickly.

"No."

"Liar."

"Actually, I'm not," Evan snapped. The atmosphere had gotten chilly and harsh, and Io started to wish she hadn't said anything. "However much you would like to believe that I'm out to get you and all your Muggleborn friends, I'm _not_." Io looked away, down at the swept hardwood floor.

"Sorry," she said, even though it hurt her pride. Evan shifted on the sofa and directed his gaze at the ceiling. "I ain't mean-"

"Yes, you did."

"I _didn't_. Evan, I was joking, come on." She resolutely managed not to stare at the stretch of his throat as he tipped his head back over the edge of the sofa arm and yawned.

Finally, he slumped back into his lazy position and looked over at her.

"I'm not a Death Eater, Io."

"I know," she replied, but he shook his head with a dry laugh.

"Now who's the liar?"

"I missed you," Io managed, trying to speak around the lump in her throat. Evan's eyes flickered in the firelight.

"How long do you have left?" he asked, without meeting her eyes.

"I said, I missed you," Io snapped. Evan checked his watch.

"I...missed you, as well," he replied hesitantly, not even sparing her a glance. "It's been nineteen minutes." A heavy silence sat between them for a second.

"Bye, then," Io said, bitterly, wishing to Merlin she just hadn't mentioned the Death Eaters. Evan stared at the wall.

"Write me," he blurted, just as she'd been about to pull her head from the fire, and Io paused. He was still staring at the wall, neck tensed, lips twitching.

"Course," she said, and she leaned backwards and the rush of green fire obscured Evan from sight.

†††††††††††††††††††††

"They've been talking about me getting married," Dorcas said. Marlene picked at a thread on her jacket and nodded.

"Makes sense." She could feel Dorcas staring at her.

The geese on the river honked indignantly, and Marlene's jacket was hot from the sun. There was a grass stain on Dorcas's wrist.

"No, it doesn't fucking make sense!" Dorcas cried suddenly. "What are you talking about?" Marlene made sure to meet her eyes carefully, cautiously.

"They probably want to keep you safe," she said. "Who to?"

"Marlene, stop!" Dorcas snapped. "Come on, what's got into you?"

"You're the one talking about getting married," Marlene fired back, her cheeks burning. "Is that a hint, or something? That you're moving on?"

"Oh, fuck off," Dorcas grumbled, ripping up a handful of grass and chucking it towards the river. It drifted sadly down back to the ground.

"What are you going to do?" Marlene asked after a second. She didn't really know what answer she was hoping for. _I want you. I'll run away from home. I'm going to marry you._

In a month and a half, she'd be back at Hogwarts, far away from Dorcas Meadowes and her sunshine smile and wandering hands.

"I don't know," Dorcas sighed. She looked over, and Marlene stared resolutely across the river. "I told you because I thought you'd be able to help."

"You told me because you're warning me," Marlene said petulantly.

"I'm not marrying anyone!" Dorcas replied.

"There's your answer, then." 

"Why are you being like this?" Dorcas asked, dipping her head into Marlene's line of sight. Marlene scowled at the river.

"I'm not being like anything."

"Marlene..."

"Are you not scared?" she let slip, before she could help herself. Dorcas frowned, reaching out for Marlene's hand.

"We're all scared, Marlie."

"I mean- _really_ scared," Marlene said desperately. Dorcas's gaze flickered from eye to eye. "I mean _Muggleborn_ scared. I mean walk down the street holding your wand, scared. I mean scared enough that you don't hold my hand anymore." Dorcas swallowed.

"That's not scared. That's cautious," she managed, and Marlene shook her head.

"That's not _right_ , Dorcas."

"I know. It's different out here, than it is in Hogwarts, okay? I just- they're chances we can't risk, alright?"

"You don't act it," Marlene mumbled. Dorcas gave a short laugh.

"You think I'm stupid? I'm everything everyone hates, alright? I'll never have the right blood, the right colour skin, the right love. Marlene, baby, look at me." Marlene looked at her. There was a coil of hair slipping down over her eye, glinting a sleek black in the sunlight. "I'm _terrified_ ," Dorcas whispered. "But isn't that what they want?"

Marlene looked away. She'd could almost imagine that this was peaceful, with the road roaring in the distance, the sun streaming relentlessly through the branches and onto the grass.

There was someone on the bench near them, so Dorcas was a respectful distance from Marlene. A couple were eyeing them suspiciously from the latticed bridge a few yards away.

"Okay," Marlene said, softly. "Okay."

"I'm sorry," Dorcas said. "If I could change it, for you, for us, I would. You know I would. You've just got to be brave, alright? Know that I-- I'm here for you." Marlene grinned.

"You were about to say something else." Dorcas looked at her seriously, and she thumped her shoulder. "You were. You were about to say you lov-" Dorcas gripped her arm fiercely, and Marlene's heart seemed to stumble over itself.

"I do love you," Dorcas said. 

Everything was silent for one, glorious second. It was just sun and Dorcas and the words blooming between them.

She wanted to kiss her. She wanted to hold her and dig her fingers into her hair and let the brown of Dorcas's eyes burn itself into her brain.

Marlene sighed, and in the wake of Dorcas's confession, the air tasted bitterly like longing. Dorcas watched her.

"How about we go back to yours," she said, quietly. "And how about we go into your room and I'll show you how I mean it, and we can forget everything out here, because it's nothing compared to the way that I..." she leaned close, daringly so, and Marlene only just managed to keep nervous eyes on her. "...love you."

"So poetic," she said with a smile, and Dorcas grinned back, brighter than the sun above them.

†††††††††††††††††††††

She knew was in trouble the instant she arrived back at the apartment. Kent opened the door with a stony face, and she let Io in without a word.

Kabra was waiting in the kitchen and just before Kent ushered her in and closed the door, Io caught sight of Darwin sitting cross-legged on his bed and making annoyed faces at her through the gap in the door.

Evan's letter scratched her sternum. On the windowsill outside, Chiquenaude cleaned his feathers nonchalantly.

"You can't do this, Io," Kent said, pacing around the table, sounding close to hysterics. Io sank guiltily into a seat, avoiding Kabra's gaze. "We thought you'd run away. I called eight of your friends' parents. I called Mrs Hayre, I called the landlord, I almost called the Muggle police-"

"Kent, relax, I'm fine," Io interrupted, and Kent swung around, eyes burning.

"Fine? Fine? Io, you dropped out of a bathroom window three stories up and ran off to Merlin knows where to talk to your _boyfriend_ -"

"He's not my boyf-"

"-at eight in the morning without telling _anyone_! I know you start fights at school! I know you sleep with your wand under your pillow! That's not fine, _none_ of this is fi-" 

"Kent," Kabra said, placatingly, and Kent paused, took a breath. Io's eyes were starting to sting with regretful tears, and she willed herself harshly not to cry.

"You have to tell us what's going on," Kent said, finally, and Io glared at the table, eyes swimming.

"Nothing's _going on_ ," she growled. She thought of secret rooms and Arule and his promises to keep her safe. She thought of Pucey's threat, of dirt packed heavily over her chest, Lily's avenging spells zinging past Mulciber's ears.

Kabra placed both large hands on the table.

"Io, we can't keep you here much longer," he said softly. "I'm sorry, but soon we have to give you back to your mother." Her spine tensed involuntarily.

"Sure," she said, and her voice cracked, the end of the word hanging crooked. Kabra and Kent shared a look.

"When would you like to go home?"

 _Never_.

_Home is Hogwarts._

_Home is Lily and Alice and Mary and Marlene and Tilly._

_Home is James, Remus, Sirius, Peter._

_Evan_?

"Now," she said. "I want to go home now."

She pushed her chair back over the kitchen floor with a horrid scrape, stood, and walked out to pack her bag.

†††††††††††††††††††††

A car picked her up on the side of the road; it was sleek and shiny and the handle had the Ministry crest stamped into it.

Io dropped her bag in the back seat and climbed in after it, and she stared at the driver's headrest resolutely as Kent and Kabra waved her off from the doorway, and Darwin watched from behind them, spinning his wand around his fingers.

†††††††††††††††††††††

The gravel crunched underneath the car's tyres like a funeral march as it pulled away, and Io glared at the heavy knocker on the front door.

She wondered loosely if Daisy would be here. If Gale would be back.

Io raised her hand and slammed the knocker against the door. It felt like alerting her presence to a vengeful eagle, and she clutched her hand a little tighter around her bag handle.

Home at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :((


	4. Mark Of The Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Io arrives back at Turpford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: CHILD ABUSE, ASSAULT, ABUSE
> 
> please don't read this chapter if these things will upset you. It's all in the tags, but don't worry, this story does get progressively less scary (unlike GG 😬)
> 
> IF YOU ARE IN A TOXIC RELATIONSHIP OR SUFFERING WITH TOXIC PARENTS, PLEASE SEEK HELP:
> 
> [ChildLine](%5Bwww.childline.org.uk%0A%5D)
> 
> Helpline: 0800 1111
> 
> ~
> 
> Thinkuknow
> 
> ~
> 
> The Hideout
> 
> ~
> 
> Women's aid
> 
> ~
> 
> Mankind Initiative
> 
> Confidential Help: 01823 334244

It was Arule who opened the door. The hall inside was dim, the curtains half-closed over the windows, and Arule seemed like a pale ghost, peering down the steps at her.

"Hi," Io managed. Her heart was thrumming anxiously. Arule looked her up and down for a second, and then he pulled the door open wider and walked back down the corridor.

She'd been expecting a worse welcome.

Io hauled her bag in through the front door and closed it carefully behind her, shutting out the light streaming in from the doorway.

There was dust gleaming on most of the surfaces, and the stairs, looming at the end of the hall, were dark. The candles must be out, she thought distantly.

She stepped onto the carpet, off the doormat, thinking of a late autumn afternoon and a piano and a sleeping cat. The house seemed like a huge cave, now; the ceilings were cold, the hearth in the downstairs drawing room hissing empty at her through the gap in the doorway.

Io didn’t take any more time to look around. She heaved her bag over her shoulder and took the stairs two at a time, the wood groaning impatiently beneath her feet, the banisters heavy with fluff. She burst through her bedroom door two floors later and flung it shut, tossing her bag to the ground and sinking to the hard planks. Her breath was coming too quick. She had this horrible feeling, like this was a long-abandoned house, where pale Arule and her disappearing mother were the wraiths. Where she was the single flesh-made person here. Where the cold of the ceiling beams was dripping ice into her veins.

The tick of her electrical clock on her bedside table tapped holes in the silence. The fire was out, of course. The room was freezing and dark, the ruffle of her unmade bed clear against the greying window. Just as she had left everything, last September.

Io wished fiercely for home. For Hogwarts, and James and all the girls. This place was a hollow, and it would never mean anything to her.

†††††††††††††††††††††

“I’m home,” Io said. It was barely more than a whisper, and her mother sucked on her pipe and turned the page of the newspaper.

“So I see.”

“Is there- dinner?” Another draw on the pipe. Her mother blew a green smoke ring into the fire, and the flames leapt to catch it with a burst of greedy sparks.

“Pantry.”

“Where are the elves?”

“I lent them.”

“You lent them?” Io cried. “They’re not slaves!”

“You don’t want to test me this evening, Iona. Pantry,” her mother replied, carelessly. Io glared at the newspaper, a ridiculous anger scratching at her insides. There was no one her mother would take her anger out on except her, now. There was nothing stopping her from telling Cassidy Morrigan just what was what.

The corner of the newspaper was flicked down, and her mother stared at Io with one bright eye. “What are you still doing here?”

She reached for her wand, on the arm of the chair, and flicked it before Io had a chance to move. The whoosh of the spell hit her in the chest like a brick and she fell backwards out of the room. She tripped, flying out onto the floor of the hall, and then the door slammed in her face, obscuring her mother from view.

She wanted to rip the door off its hinges and tear that newspaper into pieces and-

Io struggled for air through the shock to her sternum and the heat of anger. Not now.

†††††††††††††††††††††

The pinnacle of it all struck at ten to midnight. She hadn’t been back at the house even twenty-four hours yet.

Her mother opened the bedroom door, and Io sat up, having been reading her new Potions book. It thumped to her lap and onto the covers of the bed. It slapped shut. Her mother twirled her long and through her fingers, eyeing Io’s _Queen_ poster with disgust. The singers grinned back, eerily frozen, and Io’s heart shivered in her chest.

“What do you want?” she snapped, trying to force the tremble from her voice.

“Get off your bed,” her mother replied coolly. Io stayed where she was. “Get off the bed!” her mother spat, raising her wand, and Io leapt to the floor. “The kitchen needs cleaning. The hall’s dusty. Get on with it.” And she left. Io relaxed.

Nothing new, then.

She waited, until the beat of footsteps was gone, really gone, and then she crept from her room and slipped down the stairs in her socks, hopping over the creaking planks and the splintered bits and the parts that squealed when you stepped on them.

It was dark down the stairs, the sunlight long since gone, and Io stumbled over the edge of the last step.

The hall _was_ dusty. Thick with it, and Io wondered how long the house-elves had been gone.

She opened the cleaning cupboard underneath the staircase, and crouched with a creak of her knees. She started to search, blindly, for a dusting cloth, praying that there weren't any spiders or, Merlin forbid it, _cockroaches_.

Soon enough, her fingers bit into a splinter, and Io drew her hand back sharply, hissing under her breath.

"Old bloody rickety house of fucking hell," she growled, nursing her finger close to her chest as it started to bleed. This was all to no avail. She needed light.

Io ducked out of the cupboard and started back up the stairs, dashed back to her room, soft-footed, quiet, and threw herself onto her stomach to rummage underneath her bed.

She was halfway under, wriggling around in the pitch black, when she found what she was looking for. A doxy-bitten cardboard box (thankfully rid of the beasts now) stacked cleanly with long, black-stemmed candles, a box of matches perched precariously on top.

Io dragged it out onto her floor with a dusty whisper, pulled out a candle, and lit it. A scratch, a whoosh of fire, and a flame wobbled to life. She scrambled to her feet, holding the candle away from her hair, backed out through the door, and started down the stairs once again.

It took her two drudging, dim-lit hours to clean the hall by hand. The carpet kept rolling itself into lumps and tripping her, and the dusting cloths seemed to have a life of their own. Finally, Io staggered down the stairs into the kitchen, and threw herself into a chair. There was a backlit glow of a premature dawn through the window at the top of the steps, and her eyes were drooping closed.

"Sleeping on the job?" Io's head snapped up and she staggered out of the chair, legs fuzzing with weariness. Her mother, observing her coldly from the doorway. She crossed to the pantry and disappeared behind the door with a rustle and a clank of tins, and then she reappeared with a biscuit. Io’s stomach rumbled. Her mother took a bite. “What are you waiting for? There’s mould on the sugar room ceiling.”

“You could do this ten times quicker with magic,” Io snapped, before she could stop herself, and her mother paused in the act of taking another bite. Io took a step backwards, knees hitting the edge of her chair, and she stumbled. Her heart was in her throat now. If there was anything she’d ever learnt from here, it should have been not to talk back.

“Do you _know_ how lucky you are?” her mother hissed instantly, crumbs dribbling down her fingers as she gripped the biscuit. “Do you?”

“Yes,” Io managed, her voice rasping.

“I have fed you, and housed you, and given you clothes, for _sixteen_ ungrateful years!” Her mother swooped closer, eyes alighting with anger, and her hand dived into her dressing gown for her wand. “You stand here, under _my_ roof, and have the gall to tell me to clean the house? Look around you! You have a bed, you have school books, you have a clean-blooded family who would educate you on the ways of the world!” Her mother whipped her wand out, jabbing it in Io’s direction and Io leapt backwards, fists curling around a weapon that wasn’t there.

The table bit into her hip and she staggered sideways.

“This is my household, and you are a burden on it! Look at you! Sloppy Muggle clothes, hiding yourself in your room, letting your father drag our name into the mire-“

“That’s not my fault!” Io cried, eyes stinging. Her mother twitched her wand and Io flinched violently.

“ _Don’t_ talk back to me,” her mother spat. There was an ugly _something_ roiling in Io’s stomach. A twitch, like she should run.

“I’m sorry,” she managed, and there were tears on her face, but her expression was frozen, a blanket of stone, utterly devoid of anything. She had to keep it that way.

“It’s too late to be sorry, you useless child. Look at you, you’re crying, when you’re the one putting me through all this pain! You have cost me too much!” Her mother’s face was drawn now, desperately sad, and Io’s tongue was dry. They stared at each other for a long moment.

Io bolted. She made it to the steps, and then there was a tug, an invisible hook around her hip and she went crashing to the floor. Her cheek hit the edge of the step and pain lanced through her skull, a bright flash bursting behind one eye.

“Get up,” her mother snapped, and Io scrambled gracelessly to her feet, the world dipping and swaying like a drunken broom ride. Her mother was looking at her with a curled lip, that expression of utter disgust, and Io’s gut twisted like someone had reached in and yanked. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever thought about why your father ran off the Squib instead of you?”

“Please, stop,” Io whispered. Her mother lashed out, palm slamming into Io’s temple, and Io’s head snapped around, her body whirling with it. She fell back against the wall, head knocking into the edge of a high cabinet, and her mother rearranged her sleeves carefully. Io steadied herself with a hand against the wall, but the sweat on her palm slid against the paint and she snatched her arm back instantly. Io’s vision was coming in fits and starts, grey, woolly swirls.

“Clean this kitchen, and I’ll think about giving you breakfast,” her mother said. Io blinked and she was gone.

Io scrubbed the table, swaying on her feet. She washed the plates, gripping the edge of the sink with one soapy hand. She scraped the mould from the sugar room ceiling, oiled the hinges of the cupboards, tidied the pantry. She thought about putting ice on her face, and then she remembered that she hadn’t wiped the stove.

It was ten in the morning, or so said the clock in the hallway, when she’d finished, and Io dragged herself back upstairs, softening her footsteps in the carpet. She shut the door of her bedroom with barely a click, dragged her chair across the room to wedge it under the door handle. She didn’t like the thought of her mother with a wand, with an advantage, but the chair was all she could do, as there wasn’t a lock on the door.

She collapsed on her bed, and when she raised her head to tug the curtains closed, her eye caught on the Queen poster, the single thing she’d tacked up to the wall, and it was shredded. The faces of the members, their fluffy hair, their leather trousers, gleamed at her, slit into strips.

It had been an act of defiance. Or at least, that had been what she’d tried to make it. It had been a stupid thing to do, and it had looked stupid, one colourful, frozen picture on a blank white wall. And now all the colours and the letters and the faces were little more than blurred bits of paper.

Io thrust her head into her pillow without reaching for the curtains. It was more than she deserved.

†††††††††††††††††††††

The bruise on her cheekbone was red and purple by the evening. She hadn’t seen Arule since last night. Her door had remained wedged closed, and Jude had been slinking around her room like a restless demon for the past hour and a half.

Io tossed her book to the end of the bed as her eyes glazed over for the eighth time in a single paragraph. Jude leapt into her lap and butted his hard skull against her chin, and Io pushed him gently away, settling her head against the wall.

“Little gremlin,” she said affectionately, rubbing his chin with her thumb. He rumbled, shoving his head into her hand. “You’re the only living thing in this house, baby,” she whispered. “And you know how much I hate wraiths.” The silence of the house was like a pressure on her temples. Jude climbed into her lap again, tentatively this time, and curled up, nudging his nose under her t-shirt, becoming nothing more than a lump of warm fur. Io matched her breathing to the rise and fall of his belly, and in time, the light seeped away from the window, and the two of them fell asleep together.

She woke to cold air, and the sound of scratching at the window, invisible in the night. Io sat up, her heart suddenly in her throat, disoriented. She whipped around to check the door, and the chair was still there, a hard smudge in the dark room.

The scratching carried on, and Jude stumbled to his feet, blearily. Io slid off the bed, made her way to the window on sleep-trembling legs. She flicked the latch off, and heaved up the sash, and before it was even six inches open, Elwood ducked under it and flung himself into the room with a flash of his fluffy wings.

“Good evening to you too,” Io grumbled, letting the sash fall closed with a loud thump. She flinched instinctively, but when no footsteps came, she relaxed, cold crawling down her spine.

Elwood landed on her pillow, nestling himself in the dip of the pillow where Io’s shoulder had recently been. There was a letter in his claws, and Io carefully extracted it as his large eyes fell wearily closed.

It was in an envelope and everything, not just a folded bit of parchment. Not Sirius, then. Not one of the girls. Io slit it open with quick, curious fingers, and Evan’s miniscule writing squinted up at her. Three double-line paragraphs. Her heart stumbled. Her throat squeezed itself into a tight tube.

When Io had got herself under control, she sat down on her bed, and attempted to tunnel her focus.

 _Dear Io,_ it said. She took a fortifying breath.

_You didn’t write. I suppose you might have better things to do, but if I knew you at all (I think I do), I’d be worried._

_My family is returning in a week, so I have a week to do all sorts of things: coming to rescue you could, I suppose, be one of those things._

He even sounded exasperated in writing. Io let her heartbeat calm somewhat before she carried on reading.

_If you don’t answer within five days, I will come and find you. Don’t think I won’t do it, because I will._

_Alternatively, send me an answer, and I will do whatever it says. Trust me when I say, I promise._

_~~Lov~~ From Evan_

Io let go of the letter, and it drifted to her thighs. She listened for footsteps. Nothing. There was paper on her desk, a quill stuck in her ink pot.

It took her less than a minute to write her letter, roll it up and tie it closed with a loose thread from her jumper, and then she kicked her chair away from under the door, and reached for the handle with dread sitting like poison underneath her skin.

Nothing happened when the door opened.

Io dashed to the attic on the balls of her feet, because heels hitting wood made far too much noise, and when she got there, Arule’s owl, Icarus (terrible name for an owl) glared down at her from the rafters.

Io wiggled the letter at him and he tucked his head into his neck. After a second, he seemed to change his mind, and hopped off the rafter to glide down to her. He landed on the floor, and held out a foot for the letter. She gave it to him.

“Evan Rosier,” she said. “It says his name on the outside. Be quick, okay?” Icarus chirped, like an answer, and took off with a flash of wings, out through the open window, and Io watched until he was little more than a shape in the dusk.

There _were_ footsteps, this time, and Io whirled, hope flattening in her stomach. Rattling the stairs like a drum. The door opened, and her mother stepped through, wand in hand. Io stopped breathing; her chest swelled, her fingers shook and she stuffed them into her pockets.

Her mother took in the open window, the empty rafters, and shook her head, disappointment creasing over her eyebrows.

Io’s face turned hot with shame, with fear, eyes on the wand. She shouldn’t have done that—

“Oh, Iona,” her mother said, softly, staring out through the window, a faraway look. “What have you done?”

She’d made a terrible, terrible mistake—

“I’m sorry,” she tried, and it came out like a plea. Her mother shook her head.

“I already told you it was too late for that,” she said, and she raised her wand.

†††††††††††††††††††††

The paper had one word scratched desperately onto it.

 _Help_.

Evan tucked the letter into his back pocket and picked up his wand. He crossed to the fireplace, dug out a fistful of Floo powder, and tossed it into the fire. The flames bloomed green, too bright to look at.

“Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place,” he snapped, and he stepped forwards into the hearth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all <3 
> 
> Jily fluff up next! I'm sorry :'(
> 
> Thanks [Ridiculosity!](/users/%5BRidiculosity%5D/)


	5. James Potter and Ice Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lily and James catch up, and there's definitely something changed about James. She can't quite put her finger on it, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who celebrates: Happy Kwanzaa darling!! Stay safe! <3

She should have _known_. Lily ducked behind the doorframe of Flourish and Blotts, tugging her bag out of sight, and the group of boys sauntered past, chatting loudly. Soon, they were lost in the sunlit tumult of Diagon Alley, and she relaxed, leaning back against the wall.

Flourish and Blotts smelled like glue and old parchment. Lily got a whiff of freshly-laundered cloth, and then a sales assistant was peering up at her, pale-eyed and confused. Lily jumped, biting back a startled curse.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“No,” she said, readjusting her bag, getting over her fright. “No, thank you.” They stared at each other for a second. “I’ll— be going,” Lily said, gesturing to the door. She backed away, and the assistant stared after her as she stumbled back outside. Lily dashed into the crowd, shaking off that feeling of being watched, and started to dig through her pockets for her list again.

“Hey, Lily!”

“Dear _Lord_ ,” Lily groaned instantly, and James Potter wound his way past an old couple, grinning, the sun winking off his teeth. Cracked leather Muggle jacket with expensive buttons, and a bag bulging with what looked suspiciously like sweets rather than school supplies. She thought she’d gotten rid of him, for God’s sake. “Hello, Potter,” she grumbled. Behind him, Remus and Peter were hauling along their own bags, but even when she craned her neck, Black was nowhere to be found. “It seems like you’re down a minion,” she said dryly.

“Lovely to see you, too,” James said, checking over Lily’s shoulder, almost hopefully.

“If you’re looking to make a scene, you’ve come to the wrong person,” Lily said, pushing down bitterness. It sat on her tongue like a sheen. “I haven’t spoken to Severus for three months.”

“Oh,” James said. Surprised. Relieved. Lily narrowed her eyes. 

“Fancy that,” Remus muttered dryly, and James stood on his foot with a miniscule amount of stealth.

“Well.” James nodded. “Good. How— how are you?”

“Spiffing,” Lily replied slowly, suspicious. Remus and Peter were peeling off towards Fortescue’s, counting their money, and she frowned. “Is there something you need?”

“Well,” James repeated, in that scoffing, puffed-up way. “I— no, no. Just… hoping you had a nice summer.” He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, and they looked anywhere but at each other for an awkward second. “Did you?”

“It was— hot,” Lily said haltingly, because _this_ James Potter was utterly new, and she had no idea how to feel about him.

“Yes, tends to get quite hot in the summer, what with the— rotation of the Earth,” James said cheerfully. Lily tilted her head.

“Are you feeling quite right, Potter?”

“Spiffing,” James parroted, with a smile growing. Lily bit back her own grin. She blinked for a second, surprised at her smile. Then she finally got her face under control and looked him critically up and down.

“Those don’t look like school supplies,” she observed, nodding at his bag, and James groaned.

“Oh, come on, it’s only three weeks into the holidays, Lily.” She pretended not to notice her name in that sentence.

“Never too early.”

“For you,” James replied, with a glorious roll of his eyes. The alley was still bustling around them, bright and loud, and the sun was turning James’ black hair a sort of darkling gold. “You— you want to get ice cream?” he asked, hopefully, and Lily blinked. She stumbled over a few half-formed sentences, and thought about the Sickles in her pocket she’d been saving for a new quill.

“Um—“

“My treat,” James said quickly, and Lily flushed, pushing down embarrassment. “We haven’t seen each other in a while,” he said, seemingly back-tracking. “Besides, I’ll bet you’ve got some other important…clever stuff to buy.” He tried a grin, that cocksure, teasing smile she knew only too well, the one she’d hated for five years. Lily decided not to snip back at the possibilities of why they never saw each other in the holidays, and instead inclined her head stiffly, awkwardly.

“Sure,” she said. “That would be…nice.”

“Awesome,” James said, and then he cleared his throat. “Cool. Well— after you.” He held out his arm and Lily stepped away, shouldering her bag more securely and resolutely _not_ thinking about the mess of confusion sticking up her insides. Ice cream and James Potter?

†††††††††††††††††††††

"Is this a date?" Remus said slyly, as James passed him. James stomped on his foot, checking quickly that Lily was out of hearing range.

"No," James growled, shoving his face right close to Remus. Remus grinned, smug and half-agonised from his squashed toes. "Shut it, Moony." And he moved away, shouldering his way through the crowd and back to Lily's side. Behind him, Remus snorted, and made for the door with Peter in tow.

"Oh, you're back," Lily said, not sounding over the moon. She leaned against the counter, peering at the menu. James saw her eyes flicker sideways, and he yanked his hands out of his pockets. 

"So...what d'you like best?" he asked, gesturing hopelessly at the menu. Lily placed her elbow delicately on the counter.

"Raspberry," she said, eyes glittering, and James huffed. She turned to him with a raised eyebrow, and he recovered without choking on his tongue, but it was a close thing.

"I only meant- you've got to have more than one flavour. Let's make it interesting. Look, chocolate. Everyone likes chocolate. And...nuts, maybe. You're not allergic to nuts?"

"No," Lily said, slowly. James turned back from the menu, and she was watching him like his face was a crossword puzzle.

"What? Raspberry and chocolate cone with chopped nuts?" he asked hopefully. Lily hesitated.

"...sure."

"Oh, come on, Evans. What's the matter with you?" James turned to the cashier, shaking his head in confusion. A riddle, wrapped in a summer blouse. "One raspberry and chocolate flavoured ice cream cone with chopped nuts, and...one _strawberry_ and peanut butter ice cream cone, thanks." James slid over a few Sickles, and turned back to Lily with a grin on his face.

"What's that look for?" she asked, sounding horrifically suspicious. James dropped the grin.

They took the ice creams, on Lily's request, to the Owl Emporium. It was cool and dark, a contrast to the summer heat of the cobbled road outside, and they wandered around the shelves, followed by hundreds of jewelled eyes, rustling talons, suspicious hooting.

"You're looking for an owl, now?" James asked, taking a great gulp of ice cream. Lily shouldered her bag and licked her own come daintily. There was a smear of chocolate over the corner of her mouth, and James held back a mocking jab.

“Not really,” she said, and she wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist. “I just use the school owls.” She looked at her feet. “No one needs to send me letters, anyway.”

James took a bite from his cone to cover a twinge of guilt.

“How _was_ your summer?” he asked, burying his face in the ice cream. Lily seemed to come out of a sort of hunched-up trance and shrugged.

“It was okay.” She grimaced at an old and scaly-looking pair of owl feet. “I saw Severus in the supermarket at least three times.”

“Snivelly shops in Muggle supermarkets?” James scoffed, with an air that he hadn’t meant to put on. Lily’s shoulders tightened. “I only meant— you know— because he’s such a goon about Muggles.”

“I’ve never seen him buy anything,” Lily said gloomily. “He might just visit to glare at people like an angry bat.” James snorted, and ice cream flew up his nose, and Lily gave him a funny look. Not too dissimilar to amusement. “What about you?”

“Went to Pakistan to see cousins,” James said thickly, wiping his upper lip on his sleeve. “If you think England was boiling, you should visit Karachi.”

“Do you speak Urdu?” Lily inquired. James tipped his hand from side to side.

“Eh, ‘m not very good.”

“That’s pretty cool,” Lily said, and then she looked to the left and gasped. “Aw, look. He’s like a bandit!” There was a patchy grey and brown owl sitting hunched on a perch, and over his eyes was a splotch of brown feathers, like a mask. James laughed.

“Cute. You should get him.” Lily shook her head, and licked her ice cream. The owl followed her movements. “Merlin, might want to get out of here, Lily. He’s eyeing your ice cream.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Potter,” Lily said, but she was grinning.

“I’ll fight him off,” James said, settling into an over exaggerated fighting pose. “Run, Lily! Yah!” He snapped out a wobbly kick, sending the owl bursting into flight, and it circled their heads twice before flapping off to sit in the rafters. Lily didn’t even pretend to duck, cheeks straining to hold back another smile. James dropped his pose. “You’re no fun, Evans. Come on, let’s go to Malkin’s and scare the third year shrimps coming in for early fittings.”

But Lily shook her head, and James made an exaggerated disappointed face.

“I have to be back home in an hour,” she said, checking her watch. She sighed. “And I’ve got to catch a train and everything.”

“Alright,” James said, ignoring the disheartened pang in his stomach. “Want me to walk you back?”

“I think I’ll be okay,” Lily said. “Thanks for the ice cream. And the chat, I guess.”

“You guess?” James snorted, pretending outrage. “Evans, I’ll have you know I’m _fantastic_ at small talk.” She rolled her eyes again. “No problem,” he said, eventually, softer. “I’ll see you on the train in September?”

“Just so long as you and Black aren’t too busy feeling each other up after all that time apart,” Lily teased. James decided, at a snap to his pride, to ignore that dig, and instead raised his ice cream in a sort of messy salute.

“I’ll find you,” he said. “Have a nice holiday, Lily.”

“You too,” she replied, and after an awkward pause for consideration, “James.” She tapped her cone against his, and then with a last smile, turned to walk away.

†††††††††††††††††††††††

“Sit up, Sirius.”

“I _am_ sitting up.” Walburga flicked her wand, and something like an invisible string seemed to wrap around Sirius’ shoulders, forcing his spine flat against the back of the chair. He tugged his neck forwards experimentally, and the string didn’t give one inch. 

Across from him, Regulus was slipping his fork meticulously in and out of his mouth, dark eyes fixed directly on Sirius. Sirius made a horrific face at him, and wriggled his shoulders. Nothing gave.

“I can’t move my arms,” he said.

“Then this will teach you how to sit properly,” Walburga said primly, and she laid a piece of chicken delicately across her tongue.

“I can’t eat my damn food,” Sirius retorted. Walburga snapped her fingers, and Kreacher appeared at her elbow with a jug, his snout just visible above the shiny dining table. Sirius let go of his knife and fork, and they fell to his feet with a clatter. Walburga looked up, Sirius raised a petulant eyebrow at her, and then she looked down, and continued eating.

“Regulus, what do you think of the election?” Orion asked, from the head of the table, and Regulus took his time swallowing his food. Orion looked up, busy shovelling copious strips of meat into his mouth. Sirius lolled his head back on his chair and stared at the high ceiling, the flickering candles, flames tied to their wicks. “Glad to be rid of this infernal Jenkins woman, son?”

“You could say that,” Regulus replied, softly. “Unnecessary measures to keep the _free_ people in line. I wouldn’t place a bet on Minchum, though.” Sirius glared at the candles.

“No,” Orion said, slow and deep. “A shame. We were angling for Gorlois Avery, you know the man. A son, in the year above Sirius, a strong-minded boy, I've found."

"And _he's_ angling for the Death Eaters," Sirius muttered. Walburga's cutlery scraped against her plate.

"They're fine people," Orion cut in, a voice like sharp glass. "That stupid name was given them by fear-mongerers and hoarse activists. They're a group with a purpose."

"Can't argue with that," Sirius bit back. Orion either didn't catch his meaning, or chose not to engage.

"With a purpose," Orion murmured. "Regulus, you would do well among people like them. The Avery boy, the Selwyn family, Nott and his brothers. They're a good, pure set of families. I hear Bellatrix has her eye on them."

"Good for her," Walburga said.

"Yes, if you discount the initiation ritual," Sirius said casually. Walburga cast him a warning look, and a tightness in his ribs, a readiness to jump out of the magical bindings and slice her face off with a blunt knife, kept him from taking heed of her. "See Reg, to get into the Death Eater squad, you've got to murder eight babies, born of Muggle blood, and sacrifice them naked to a hungry box of Flobberworms-"

"Silencio!" Walburga snapped, flicking her wand, and Sirius's words dried up in his throat, his mouth working uselessly. Regulus stared emptily at him from across the table, lightning-pale under the candles.

“Someone at the Floo, mistress,” Kreacher said, sliding around the doorframe, half-hidden. Walburga threw down her napkin and rose to her feet, and with a last haggard look at Sirius, she left the dining room. Sirius glared after her.

†††††††††††††††††††††††

The room was lavish and somewhat gothic, not near as elegant as home. There was a huge tapestry covering the walls, faces and portraits and delicate vines stitched painstakingly into it, golden threads linking some pairs. A family tree. There was Sirius Black, and Regulus, his younger brother. Walburga and Orion above them, linked together. A painstakingly filtered pure-blood family. Evan was familiar with the matching process. 

No windows, so as not to stain the tapestry with sunlight, presumably.

Evan shook soot off his trousers and onto the narrow hearth, and Io’s message crinkled in his pocket, far too loud. He flattened it quickly with his palm.

Heels, snapping a long stride down the hall, and then Walburga Black swooped into the room, fitted robes, bespoke shoes, hair coiffed into perfect curls and pinned back against her head. She paused when she saw Evan.

“Master Rosier,” she said. Evan inclined his head, hands behind his back.

“Mrs Black. I dropped in to visit Regulus and Sirius.”

“Wonderful,” Walburga said, lips thinning in a way that suggested she found his sudden visit anything but. “I didn’t know you and Sirius were good friends.” Evan smiled with just the right amount of teeth.

“We’ve bonded recently. May I come through?” He moved to the door without waiting for her invitation, and Walburga nodded, to herself.

He knew where the dining room was. The townhouse wasn’t a mystery to him.

Sirius was sitting as straight as a ruler against the back of the chair, cutlery on the floor, his back to the door. Regulus’ fork paused halfway to his mouth, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Afternoon, sir,” Evan said politely, nodding to Orion. Orion blinked. “Boys,” Evan continued, directed this time to the two brothers. Sirius didn't so much as turn his head, but his jaw was tensed, as if he was grinding his teeth.

“Why don’t you three convene in the library upstairs?” Walburga said stiffly, and then she hissed something unintelligible, and Sirius’ shoulders slumped, suddenly relaxed. Evan managed to smooth down a frown.

“Sounds fantastic,” Evan replied. “Sorry for interrupting your luncheon.”

“No problem at all _old boy_ ,” Sirius said, finally, and he stood with a scrape of his chair. He whipped around, and there was steel in his gaze, but Evan didn’t drop his eyes.

“I’m not finished,” Regulus said, softly. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Even better,” muttered Sirius. “This way, Rosier.” He pushed past Evan and made for the stairs in the hallway, and Evan turned on his heel and followed.

†††††††††††††††††††††††

The library was warm and dark-walled. Sirius threw himself into a chair by the fire and lifted his leg, balancing his ankle on his knee. He stretched his hands behind his head and studied Evan for a second.

Evan took his own seat, hands splayed over the armrest.

“What the hell is this about, Rosier?” Sirius snapped immediately. “Bored in Paris?”

“Oh, I was suffering,” Evan replied dryly, and he dug Io’s message out of his pocket and handed it to Sirius. “But this isn’t about me.” Sirius snatched the parchment and smoothed it out over his thigh. Instantly, his eyes darkened, like clouds gathering, and he balled the message up in his fist quickly.

“When—“ he cleared his throat, head twitching to the side— “when did she send this?”

“I received it from her brother’s owl about—“ Evan checked his watch— “ten minutes ago.”

“And?”

“I need your help to come to her rescue.”

“She’s never needed a saviour, Rosier,” Sirius said, not more than a soft growl. “She’s certainly never needed you.” Evan took a calming breath, trying to smother a flash of anger. He was sure that he was running out of time to act. 

“I know you don’t trust me, Black—“

“You’re fucking right I don’t trust you, Rosier,” Sirius snapped. “Sometimes, I do wonder why...” His eyes were dripping with sarcasm, and he tilted his head. Evan glowered back.

“I asked her if she needed help, and she sent me that,” he hissed. “I was hoping you would care.”

“Don’t try and manipulate me,” Sirius spat. “It’s all you ever do, get a new hobby.”

“But it’s my one redeeming feature,” Evan replied, dry as could be. “Look, Black, you can sit here and whine at me, or we can go right now and stop Io’s gargoyle of a mother actually trying to kill her.” He raised an eyebrow. “Are you in, or should I do this alone?”

Sirius threw the message into the fire without looking, and for a second, Evan’s heart sank bitterly. He should never have expected Sirius Black to put away his pride, even for Io-

“Don’t be an idiot, Rosier. Of course I’m in.” Sirius glared at the flames, and Evan blinked fast in a rush of relief. “We’ll need more than just us two, though. And we’ll need a plan.”

“So you _do_ have some sense,” Evan said, rising from his seat. “I agree. Better tell your mother you’re going out.” He stuck out his hand, the light of the fire turning his skin a demonic red. “Good to have you on board.” Sirius eyed the hand for a long moment, and Evan could see suspicion colouring his face. 

Then he reached out, too, veins blue under the thin skin of his knuckles, and they shook on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ily! comments are always needed and WELCOME, even if it's just to say hi :)


	6. Visitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two plans go awry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you thought you’d seen the last of me bitches

She heard them arrive. The heavy groan of the front door, Arule gabbling down in the hall, the thud of shoes.

“Do hang your coat up, Mr Wilkes,” her mother said, indistinct through several layers of floor.

“A lovely house,” someone said, deep, muffled, and then the chatter faded as the group moved away. 

Her bedroom door was locked from the outside. The summer light was fading fast, all sorts of bruised oranges and reds dripping over the floor and her bed and the empty hearth. Io wrapped herself in her blanket and shivered, tried to get comfortable, wincing each time she rolled onto an ache.

Arule had seemed so brave when he told her, six months ago, what he feared their mother had dragged herself into. He was perfectly happy to play host now, to leave Io bruised and hungry and angry in her room. To leave Daisy cowering in a hole in London, to leave their father hunkered down, chased and wary.

Io was tired of being shut in the dark, beat and tossed aside. She wanted to know why. She wanted to know what in the hell an eleven year old kid had to do with any of this.

She knew they were Death Eaters, those people downstairs. No amount of smoothed-over newspapers and harried radio broadcasts could convince her otherwise. Everything was getting darker and colder, and people had been ignoring it for years.

Everyone knew the name Voldemort. But his followers sat around in broad daylight and no one gave a shit.

She remembered every look of horror she’d ever seen: Jane in her hospital bed, Sirius’ face, drawn at the sight of a heavy book, Lily shaking beneath her duvet in third year, the little Peoin twins, watery-eyed from their posters.

†††††††††††††††††††††

“So,” Sirius grunted, peering through the leaves. “Cassidy’s got guests.” He flicked a glance at Evan.

“Don’t look at me,” Evan snapped coldly, kneading the soil with his fist.

“Now, now, boys,” James interrupted, placid, and he stuck his head in between the two of them. Sirius grabbed his ear. “Ouch, Pads. What do we do?”

“I’ll go to the door,” Evan said. He gave them both a narrow look. “You two are less tactful than a herd of Erumpents in clown shoes.”

"I'd rather be an Erumpent than a snake's dick dressed as a Death Eater," Sirius snorted. Evan's glare turned cold.

“Stop it,” James insisted. “Rosier, you go to the door, then. Hopefully you won’t find any of _your_ relatives in there, eh?” Evan turned his murderous glare on James instead.

“Good, good,” James said cheerfully, cracking his knuckles. “Right, that means it’s up to me and Pads to fly up and find her room, I guess.”

“We could just skip the distraction,” Sirius offered. “She looks like she’s pretty tied up, what with the cult meeting going on inside.”

“Just say you don’t trust me,” Evan replied, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t trust you.”

“We’ll keep the distraction,” James said, decisively. “God, this would all be so much easier with wands.”

“If we’re sending Rosier in, you’re going with him,” Sirius said. James made a whining sound.

“Why?”

“I dont trust him, but I also don’t want to be anywhere near him,” Sirius replied easily.

“I’m still here,” Evan snapped, glaring through the leaves at the house.

“So you are,” Sirius said, mildly. “Unfortunately, I don’t care.”

“Alright, fine,” James cut in. He huffed, exasperated. “Good Merlin, you two are a difficult pair. Come on, then, Rosier.” The two of them stood up, brushed off their clothes, and stepped into the driveway. As they walked off, Sirius could see Evan’s hands bunched up in his pockets.

He turned away, grabbed his broom, and snuck around the edge of the bush, onto the lawn. Once in clear sight of the house, he picked up the pace, faster, faster, until he was flat out, at a dead run across the grass. He dived into cover: a sapling leaning up against the wall, and pressed himself into the stone. There was a window right by his ear. His heart sung inside his chest.

Wandless, alone, and trespassing; he didn’t give much to his chances if he were seen.

†††††††††††††††††††††

“Rosier,” James said breezily, kicking away a large chunk of gravel. It skittered across the ground in a cloud of dry dust. The fading sun warmed the backs of their necks. Evan glared sulkily at him.

“What?”

“Io,” James prompted, peering at Evan’s face. Evan snorted.

“I’m not going to beg for your _blessing_ , Potter.”

“I was going to say you should be careful,” James relied, sharply, all the fake bravado suddenly gone. Evan raised an eyebrow at him.

“You’re threatening me?” James shrugged.

“If you hurt her...” he squinted at the house as it loomed over them, imposing in the darkening blue sky. “...she will hurt you back.” Evan blinked. James started at him, dark-eyed. “I don’t need to scare you, Rosier. But I will warn you— she can damn well handle herself.” They kept walking, icy silence descending. “But I won’t take kindly to it, either,” James said eventually, cheerfully. “So don’t expect any help.”

They approached the door, and Evan wrangled his hands from his pockets. James raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’m not what you all think I am,” Evan said softly.

“I hope so,” James grunted. “For your sake.” He leant forwards, and rapped on the door.

†††††††††††††††††††††

Sirius mounted his broom, and kicked off. His feet left the grass and he angled the broom handle upwards, drifting towards the top of the roof. Warm air wafted past his ears, and the higher he got, the more playful the tepid wind became. It played with his hair, whipping it into his eyes as he flew past a chimney, dipping in and out of the peaks of the roof.

Her room was on the other side of the house. Sirius crossed the roof with unease building in his stomach. Awful thoughts started to fill his head, with only the silent sky as a companion.

What if they were too late? If she was locked in the cellar? 

A slope came at him from nowhere, and Sirius twisted the handle, veering sharply left. For a second, he dipped hard towards the tiles, and then he got the broom under control, heart hammering. Stupid thoughts, ridiculous overthinking. She was either there or she wasn’t.

He got to the edge of the roof, lowered the broom, dipping back and forth, drifting ever so slightly down the wall. He passed a window, an empty attic. An owl blinked wearily at him from the windowsill.

Another floor, bookcases lining a dusty office. Sirius banked to the right, checking the first window, then the next, and he saw an empty hearth and his own shadow on a red-draped floor. He peered in, the dusk making it hard to see. 

Someone moved, legs swinging into vision, and Sirius hovered, unsure, relief and fear both quick in his throat.

She appeared at the window. A blanket hung off one shoulder. She squinted, into the sun. Sirius blinked, he stared, every muscle going numb. He was supposed to— 

She dashed forward, flung open the sash with a heave, and shoved her body halfway out the window before he could stop her.

“Sirius!” she hissed, a triumphant whisper. Sirius’ tongue worked heavily inside his mouth; there were bruises down the side of her face, one arm clutching her side— what could he say? What should he say?

“We came to get you,” he croaked. “Are you—? Merlin, Io.” She drew back a little, turning red under a ghostly sheen of what could have been exhaustion. “Sorry,” he said. “Hey, it’s okay. Here, let me in.” He urged the broom forward until the handle scratched the wall, and she stepped back. He swung his legs onto the sill, folded himself into the room, and then the second his feet touched the floor, she flung her arms around him. “Uh—“ he managed, cleverly, as she clung to him, burying her face in his sternum.

He’d never seen her like this. Desperate, shaking, hanging on like the world was burning around her ears. He hugged her back, hands on her shoulders, breathing over her hair.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” he mumbled awkwardly.

“Don’t be a goon,” Io replied, struggling away. He loosened his arms, and she extricated herself, rearranging her blanket, dashing the back of her wrist over one bruised eye. She looked up at him, straight back, chin up, like she was trying to prove something. “Thank you.” She glanced away then, suddenly. “I didn’t— want to need saving. You know.” She shrugged, but he could hear her words thickening. Sirius frowned, shook his head, a stinging need to comfort her arising.

“You didn’t _need_ saving, Io. You needed a hand, and you got what you asked for.” He shrugged, scuffed the floor with his toe. “We wouldn’t’ve left you. No one could’ve got out of this by themselves, not even you.” He looked up, locked eyes with her. “I know you’d do the same for me.”

“Thanks,” Io said thickly. Sirius grunted.

“You got your stuff?”

“Never unpacked my trunk,” she said quietly, nodding to the trunk at the foot of her bed. It was open, stuffed with clothes. Her school books were in a heap on the floor. “Already got my sixth year books. We’re taking this on the broom?”

“The broom can deal with it,” Sirius replied. “Come on, let’s shut it and drag it to the window. We haven’t got long.”

†††††††††††††††††††††

Cassidy Brewsam opened the door.

“Hello!” James said cheerfully. She looked at him like he was mud on her shoe. “I’m James.”

“And?” she snapped.

“And I’m Colin,” Evan said, stepping forwards. “McThaw,” he added smoothly. Cassidy’s frown wiped over a little.

“McThaw...” she muttered. “What can I do for you?”

“We’ve come to see Arule,” James chipped in. Evan barely refrained from stomping on his foot. Cassidy scowled at them both.

“What for?” 

“Uhh—“ James managed, obviously blanking.

“You really aren’t very clever, for all your brilliant grades, are you, Potter?” Evan growled, and James had the shame to look wounded. Cassidy drew her wand.

“What do you want?” she asked, and the two boys took twin steps back.

“What we _don’t_ want is trouble,” James joked, eyeing her wand.

“Then get off my land—“ there was a huge crash and a thump, and Cassidy swung around, cursing. “What in the hell—?”

“That’s the Ministry!” James yelped, waving his hands desperately. Cassidy turned around, and Evan managed a terrified glare in James’ general directions before James raised his hand and punched Cassidy square in the throat. She choked, stumbled backwards over the threshold, and James reached for the handle and slammed the door shut.

“What the _hell_ , Potter?” Evan cried, and James grabbed his wrist and yanked him away. They both went staggering down the steps.

“No time for that!” James panted. They ran, over the driveway, across the lawn, leaping over flowerbeds, kicking up dry soil, and swung around the corner. The house was wide, and Evan’s feet seemed to be pounding into the ground too slow. They skidded around the back of the house, where Io and Sirius were mounting a groaning broom, loaded with Io’s school trunk. The two pairs locked eyes with each other, and Sirius and Io froze.

“Go!” Evan yelled, waving a hand crazily. Sirius saluted, and kicked off the ground, hard; the broom lurched into the air and then Sirius got it under control and they bounded off towards the woods. “Where’s your broom?” Evan wheezed.

Silence. James groaned.

“Back at the bushes,” he panted.

“Oh, baise-tu,” Evan snapped. “We’re going to get killed.”

“We’d better get going, then,” James said, and he turned and sprinted away, back around the corner of the house.

“Potter!” Evan yelled, taking off after him. “Don’t— be an— idiot— Potter! We don’t have— wands!”

“Run faster!” James called over his shoulder. They burst back out on the front lawn, and just as they reached the driveway once more, the front door was flung open and four people came running out, wands aloft, robes snapping around their ankles. Evan cursed aloud, again and again, lungs burning, fear biting at his heart.

The group raised their wands and fired, flashes, bangs, streams of red and purple light, and Evan flung himself to the ground, skidding along in the dust, gravel tearing at his skin. A spell burst into the ground by his ear, a great blast of orange light and dust, flecks of stone flying everywhere, the smell of ozone bubbling into Evan’s nose. He jumped, scrabbling in the dirt, curling in on himself. Another spell blew up the gravel just by his ribs, throwing him backwards, stinging his skin, and Evan scrambled to his hands and feet, crawling and diving along the floor, spell blasts following him across the driveway, the ground cutting into him. The bushes were in sight, he could get there, take cover. Evan dived and—

—never hit the ground. His collar tightened around his neck, strangling him suddenly, yanking him upwards like a noose, and the ground flew away beneath his hands. Evan jerked, choking, swiping at the air—

“Relax,” someone said, and he was flung to the side and landed on a bar of wood, draped over it like a sack of wheat. The air rushed out of him and he slipped down, clutched at the bar to drag himself into a secure position. The ground got further and further away, and Evan’s stomach lurched; the group of people flung spell after spell at them, and the broom dipped this way and that, swinging Evan to and fro, magic zipping hotly past his ears.

“Fly, goddamnit,” Evan wheezed, screwing his eyes shut at the thought that the ground was so far away, he was hanging on only by the strength of his aching arms.

“Good idea,” James said, and he urged the broom forwards and they zoomed away.

†††††††††††††††††††††

They didn't stop for two hours. By that time, Evan had managed to get himself seated properly on the broom, and hung on with both hands, feeling sick and very much _not_ watching the ground, swinging dizzily around far beneath them.

But he couldn’t keep his eyes shut forever.

James landed them in the back garden of an expansive cottage, and Evan tumbled softly onto the mossy ground, gripping weakly at it with relieved, trembling fingers. He cracked an eye open. The sky was a deep navy now, comforting and full of pinprick stars. Evan swallowed motion sickness.

“Is he alright?” he heard, distantly. 

“Pussy about flying,” replied Potter. Someone smacked him and he yelped.

“Fuck you,” Evan mumbled. Someone rushed over, dropping to their knees on the soft ground, and Evan dragged his eyelids open. Io blinked down at him. “Hello.” She grabbed him in a tight hug, squeezing the air out of him, and the ache in Evan’s side turned to a stabbing pain. He didn’t complain, just looped an arm around her waist and let her hold him.

There was relief climbing his spine, dissolving dread and terror, and he felt _softer_ in her arms, comforted somehow.

“Heya,” Io mumbled, into his shoulder. She was lying half across him. He laid his hand across her side, smoothing her rumpled jumper.

“You okay?”

“I’m good.”

“Okay.” Neither of them moved for a second, breathing in the same swell, the same beat. Io pushed her hand into the short hair in the nape of his neck, swirling her fingers. She sighed into his shoulder, and Evan repressed a delicious shiver, holding his breath like he could trap this moment in forever. Then Io shoved her elbow into the ground and pushed herself up, unsteadily hovering above him. Her hair brushed his ear, tangled and windswept.

“I like your hair,” she said, softly, brushing a wick of it off his forehead. Evan’s heart suddenly leapt into his mouth, pulse slamming like a pedal against his throat. She smelt like greenery, fresh air. He probably smelt of nervous sweat and ozone and dust.

“Thanks,” he croaked.

“Io,” grunted James, from across the garden, and she looked up, flushing, scrambling to her feet. Evan cursed James Potter out in his head in three different languages, then pulled himself together and staggered upright himself. James tipped his head towards the cottage. “The girls are here.” Io rushed off, face brightening, and it was only after she was gone, through the back door of the cottage, that Evan caught James watching him, eyes narrowed.

“I know,” Evan said. “I’m being careful.” James only snorted, and stormed away.

†††††††††††††††††††††

Euphemia was on Floo with someone in the kitchen, and Io dashed past her before she could get worried, and burst into the drawing room. Lily, Alice, Marlene, Tilly and Mary were clustered on the sofa, and they leapt to their feet when Io ran in.

“Jesus Christ,” Lily growled, and she flew at Io and hugged her, severely tight.

“Hi,” Io wheezed.

“That _gargoyle_ ,” Lily grumbled into her shoulder. She let go, and for a second Io was free, but then the rest of the girls descended on her and soon she was smothered by a sobbing Mary, a trembling Alice, a soft and gentle Marlene, and a strangling Tilly-arm. 

“M okay,” Io managed, sticking her head above the crowd. Lily smiled weakly at her, knotting her hands together. “I’m okay,” Io said, just to Lily. Lily dashed a tear away.

“I love you,” she said. Io felt herself start to bask in all that glorious warmth.

“I love you, too.” Mary burrowed in deeper. “I love all of you guys, but you’re breaking my ribs.” They all let go and stumbled back with stammered apologies. 

Now they were all looking at her, or at the floor, or the ceiling, and suddenly all Io wanted was to go to bed, and to sleep, to sleep _safe_ , God she wanted it so bad.

Lily seemed to catch on, and she shooed the others away towards the sofa, slipped her arm around Io’s shoulders, and gently guided her in to the quiet hallway. She shut the drawing room door and deposited Io on the soft stairs, then sat down beside her.

Io sniffed, leant her head against the cool, white wall, and then her shoulders shook and her belly heaved and she started to sob. She cried messily, like only kids can do when everything come crashing and burning down around them, when they’re locked up and thrown into walls and spat and cursed at from the very people who shouldn’t do it. She cried like a ten year old, and she wasn’t ashamed of it, and Lily laid her head on Io’s shoulder and let her cry herself out.

†††††††††††††††††††††

Fleamont and Euphemia set her up in the spare room with pyjamas and soft sheets, and Lily slept on the other side of the bed, with reluctant permission from her parents.

Evan left to go home through the Floo, with a lingering hug and a secret squeeze of her hand. Sirius stepped in after him with a separate handful of powder, and he cast Io a long-faced look and a smile. The green flames ate him up, and Lily slid her fingers into Io’s.

They didn’t discuss her future downstairs at the kitchen table in the dark without her. They waited until morning instead, when she’d eaten breakfast and gotten dressed and they were all sitting out under the warm sun, Flutterby bushes winking in the late morning light.

“You can stay here, as long as you’d like,” Euphemia said, gently. Fleamont, in his work clothes and sipping thoughtfully on a cup of orange-coloured tea, nodded, solemn. "We know there were complications with your aunt and uncle, but there is plenty of space in this house, and James would be absolutely delighted to have you here."

"It would be fine," James grunted, tossing grapes into his mouth. Euphemia frowned at him. Io snorted.

"Thanks, James."

“I called in the Ministry, too,” Fleamont said, checking his watch. Io’s heart skipped an uncomfortable beat. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d somehow betrayed her family, by leaving them behind. “I’ll have a full report once I’m back in.” Io nodded, and gave what she hoped looked like a thankful smile.

"You could come home with me, if you want," Lily offered gently. Io started to wish they'd all stop speaking so softly, like she'd shatter it they raised their voices.

(She might.)

She wasn't all the way gone.

"It's okay, Lily," she said. She turned back to Euphemia. "Can I stay here? Just until Hogwarts starts again." Euphemia beamed, creases deepening at the corners of her eyes. Fleamont grinned, too. James wiggled in his chair.

"Absolutely," Fleamont said, slurping down the last of his tea. "The guest room will become yours."

"And afterwards?" James prompted. "Can't you stay here forever?" Everyone looked at him, then at Io.

"I can ask my Grampa," Io said in a small voice. "Or McGonagall, if I can stay at Hogwarts."

“I’ll send her a letter,” Euphemia said, rising slowly from her chair. “And I’ll get you some paper, and you can ask your grandfather, alright?” She smiled down at Io, and James kicked the legs of his chair.

“Then can we go play Quidditch?” he blurted, and Euphemia sighed. Lily grinned into her own shoulder.

“Yes,” Euphemia said. 

“Yes!” James crowed. “You too, Evans?”

“I’ll watch,” Lily said dryly, carefully rearranging her face. “I have to go home soon.” James stuck out his tongue.

“I’ll go get the brooms,” he said, and he raced off back towards the house, shoelaces flying out behind his heels.

They all watched him go, and then with another sigh and a shake of her head, Euphemia started to amble after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Euphemia: would you like to stay for dinner?
> 
> James: wOuld yOU LIKE TO STAY FOREVER?


	7. The Order Of The Phoenix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case of Cassidy Morrigan-Brewsam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your consideration, the family tree : https://carloabay.tumblr.com/post/643187902603509760/iona-morrigan-brewsams-family-tree
> 
> <3

"Ten Sickles."

"That's weak."

"Twenty Sickles."

"You couldn't buy half an ounce of Knarl Quills with twenty Sickles, Fauche."

" _Forty_ Sickles."

"Done. Hey, Moody."

Alastor strode past the cubicle without acknowledging them, Bennet on his heels. 

"Gambling is prohibited in office hours," Bennet said, and one of the idiots muttered something rude. Bennet tipped her head up and marched on.

"Not going to hex him?" Alastor asked. Bennet snorted.

"If I had a Knut for every time someone called me a bitch, I'd be old money Malfoy by now," she replied. Alastor smirked.

She hesitated, uptick of breath, dug her fingernail under her eyepatch. He knew by now that meant she was figuring out how to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing.

"Spit it out, Bennet."

"I'm supposed to be taking a Portkey to Berlin in three hours," she said.

"I put Fauche on it," he replied.

"Fauche? You reassigned him? Are you allowed to do that?"

"Superiors love me."

"They hate you." She stuffed her hands in her pockets. "You didn't-"

"Didn't bribe them, didn't hex them, didn't lick their damn boots," he replied, crosser than he should have been. "Look, stop asking questions, will you?" Bennet went silent for a second.

"You didn't ask Crickerly, did you?" she said, quietly. Alastor didn't reply. Crickerly's office door loomed at them from the end of the corridor. "Damn it, Moody," she growled. "I was looking forward to Berlin. They never let me go international!"

"Quit whining," he snapped. "It's a good case, I swear." They reached the door, and he squared his shoulders. 

"It had better be," Bennet growled.

"It is," Alastor said, firmly, over his shoulder, and he reached out and knocked on the door.

†††††††††††††††††††††

The message came in through the kitchen window while they were eating lunch. No owl. A soft scrap of parchment, flapping through the waves of sunlight, and it settled on the wooden table.

They all stared at it.

"Must be for Monty," Euphemia said quickly, scooping up the scrap of paper, and she strode out of the kitchen, a little hurried, into the study by the stairs.

James and Io shared a look.

"Shady," James muttered.

"Definitely," Io replied, out of the corner of her mouth. "Your ma's not a Death Eater, right?" She'd meant to joke. It came out cool. It rolled off James' back easily, though.

"Nah," he said, filling his mouth with food. "Wonder what it is, though?"

"Huh," Io agreed vaguely. She could practically _hear_ James thinking.

They chewed in silence for a second.

"Wanna check it out?" James said after a second.

"Uh--" Io said, hearing the study door close. She dithered too long, and Euphemia came back into the kitchen, solemn-faced. She smiled, sat down, and picked her fork up again.

Io glared shamefully at her plate. There was something twitchy inside her, a mean little instinct that wanted to keep away from the study door. Io's fork scraped on her plate with a screech, and Euphemia winced.

They ate in silence for a little while. A cool breeze billowed in the short kitchen curtains, and Euphemia got up to close the window, turning her back on them.

James kicked her under the table, wide eyed.

" _Pussy_ ," he mouthed. Io frowned at him.

" _Prick_ ," she hissed back. " _Fine_." James grinned, triumphantly, and then Euphemia turned back around and he merged his expression skilfully into whimsy. Euphemia sighed at him, and lowered herself back into her chair.

†††††††††††††††††††††

Euphemia waited until James and Io had gone to bed, until Monty had poured out a very small Firewhisky for them both, until the curtains were shut and the moon was up, and then she settled herself by the fire with the message in her hand.

"Here you are," Monty said, pressing the glass into her palm. He lowered himself into his chair and peered at her. "There's something on your mind."

"Yes," Euphemia said, and she held out the message between two fingers. "We've been summoned." Monty took it, smoothed it out over his sharp knee.

"The Hog's Head," Monty read, musing. He looked up, his eyes reddish in the firelight. "Dumbledore?"

"Must be," Euphemia replied. "He told us he would be in touch."

"The last time the Order came together was two years ago," Monty said, drinking deeply from his Firewhisky.

"That was also the first time," Euphemia reminded him. "The war's on top of us, Monty. It has been for a while."

"When?"

"Tonight. Now."

"We should go, then," Monty said. He got to his feet, groaning. "I might be getting too old for this, my dear." He offered her his arm, and the Floo powder pot.

"I don't think we have a choice," Euphemia replied, wearily, and she grasped in the Floo pot for a handful of powder.

†††††††††††††††††††††

Milo Brewsam was very old, and very frail. Alastor lowered himself into a wicker chair across from the man, his notebook in hand, and Bennet situated herself over Alastor's shoulder.

"We'd like to ask you a few questions, if that's alright," Bennet said. They'd agreed at the door that she would take the lead, and he would 'sit and glare'. His best technique.

"Of course," Brewsam said, and although his voice was brittle and dry as the summer soil, his eyes were bright and sharp. He cleared his throat. "May I ask on what matter?"

"Your son," Bennet replied. Brewsam folded his thin hands over his knees. They were paper white, thin green veins tangled through his knuckles. Alastor watched him carefully, but Brewsam was very pointedly not looking at him.

"My son," he repeated. "Sage."

"Yes," Bennet said.

"And what would you like to know?"

"Anything you can tell us. Starting from last summer." Brewsam chuckled, wet his lips.

"From when he walked out on his wife, I assume," he said dryly. Bennet hesitated. Alastor scribbled that down. They hadn't expected the old man to be quick and disregarding. They'd expected him sighing, regretful, maybe angry or bitter. Alastor didn't much like elderly people, but Milo Brewsam was sharp. Brewsam tilted his head. "They'd been arguing for weeks, months, perhaps," he said, like it tasted delicious. "Cassidy had been falling in with the wrong sort, for a while, but Sage was only beginning to see it. Blood purists. Dark magic. Old rituals." He smiled, thinly. "I did try to warn him. Cut him off the inheritance. He didn't listen."

"Was Cassidy secretive, or Sage blind to her?" Bennet asked.

"Both," Brewsam rasped. Bennet almost sighed, uptick of breath, tucked her fingernail under her eyepatch. Alastor silently willed her not to get frustrated.

"And what prompted the walking out?"

"What is this, a gossip column?" Brewsam said sharply, nodding at Alastor. Alastor fixed him with a shark-like stare.

"It's an official investigation," Bennet replied, cool as you please. "Answer the questions, sir." Brewsam sniffed.

"I'd say it was Moira, but the only person who really knows will have to be Sage."

"Moira, your granddaughter?" Bennet clarified. 

"Yes."

"What does she have to do with any of this?"

"What, indeed," Brewsam muttered. He stared out of the window for a moment, and Bennet patiently gave him time. "She's currently holed up under someone's floorboards, as I understand it." He smiled at them again. Alastor wondered that if Brewsam opened his mouth, maybe he'd see needle-sharp teeth. "But you already knew that."

"What about Cassidy?" Bennet asked, smoothly switching tack.

"You want something to incriminate her?" Brewsam asked quickly. A frown formed between his eyebrows. "I've been keeping tabs on that bitch for years, and nothing's ever solid with her."

"You said 'the wrong sort', didn't you?" Bennet quoted. "What did you mean by that? Can you give me names?"

"No," Brewsam said, flat. "She's clever. Besides, we cut each other off years ago."

"Any details would be helpful," Bennet supplied. Brewsam sighed, crisply.

"You need to ask the kids," he said, grumpily. "Honestly, woman, I don't hardly know why you came to me."

"What about Sage? Any idea where he might be, what he might be running from? So far, the department's investigations have turned up nothing." 

Brewsam squinted at her shrewdly.

"You just got put on this case?" he asked. "You're doing a hell of a lot better than those other idiots so far." Alastor could feel Bennet holding back amusement.

"Answer the questions, please," she said. Brewsam shrugged.

"He's in London," he said. "Probably Muggle London, 's where he'd be safest. Where I'd go."

"Would you say he's a lot like you, then?" Bennet interrupted.

"Absolutely," Brewsam replied. "Different motives, but he thinks the same way." He shrugged. "It's the Slytherin, Ravenclaw dichotomy. We make fine pairs."

"And Sage's pursuers?" Bennet pressed.

"No idea. He made a bit of a ruckus in court, though, right before he up and fled. Guy called Unctus. Old money. Heard little Io made an enemy of his kid." He grinned this time, no needle teeth in sight. "She's a fine bit of fire, that one."

"You said talk to the kids," Bennet said. "You mean Iona? Arule? Gale?"

"Boy am I glad this family's secrets are a nice footstool for you people," Brewsam said, dryly. He tipped his head, neck clicking. "Yeah, Io, maybe. Arule's a wet wipe most of the time, thick kid, brains but won't use them. Gale's buggered off to America, that Plimpy." He glared at the floor. "I'd say take this up with my daughter. You might get a little more than trying to pick my shrivelled old brain."

"Alright," Bennet said, wrapping up. "Thank you, Mr Brewsam. If you have anymore information to share, please contact the Auror office directly." She nodded, and Alastor rose from the wicker chair with a creak.

"My pleasure," Brewsam grunted. He didn't get to his feet. "You can show yourselves out."

They did.

The door swung shut behind them, and Alastor checked quickly through his notes.

"Bloody gossip, that man," he muttered.

"All the better for us," Bennet replied. "He was quick as hell, though. Might have been spilling some, hiding some."

"We should check his story against his daughter's," Alastor said.

"And the kids?" Bennet asked. "Do we really want to drag them into this?"

"They're already in deep," Alastor replied. "Remember Iona Morrigan-Brewsam from Hogwarts? When those kids were getting attacked?"

"Yeah. Seemed like she was getting tangled in on purpose, though."

"Maybe she's got her granddaddy's taste for drama."

"Maybe she's got her father's sense of righteousness."

"She's an absolute arsehole of a kid," Alastor grunted, thinking half-fondly about his encounter in the Hospital Wing with her. "Gave Dawlish what-for when he tried to talk to her like a toddler."

"Mix of both," Bennet suggested. Alastor snorted. "I say we go to Brewsam's daughter first. Maybe snoop around in London some while we're there. Then on to the kids."

"Agreed," Alastor said. "Iona's in with the Potters for now, MCPSS thinking about moving her into protective housing, maybe adoption."

"That's shitty," Bennet said.

"And we should go to the Ministry," Alastor added. "Speak to the mum. MCPSS took her in last night."

"Alright," Bennet said. "Plan of action. Should probably get off this guy's doorstep, though, before he jinxes us through the kitchen window." Alastor snorted.

†††††††††††††††††††††

The Hog's Head was warm and bright when they stepped out of the fireplace, and the people crowding the tables looked up, smiles growing. It smelled like good food and spell wards and pipe smoke.

Aberforth, at the bar, managed them a cursory look before turning back to wiping a dirty glass with a dirtier dishrag.

Kent and Kabra Mistry, grinning nervously, Augusta Longbottom, shallow-cheeked and sharp-eyed, clustered around the same table. Augusta was smoking a pipe, huffing bright pink smoke into rings that chased around the corners of the room.

Rubeus Hagrid took up a whole table-side all by himself, head almost brushing the ceiling, and across from him were sat the Prewetts, Arthur Weasley, Andromeda Black.

Minerva McGonagall was making rounds, looking stiff-spined and worried. Euphemia waved kindly at her from across the room.

Others, younger people that Euphemia didn't know, milled about, some hesitantly introducing themselves, some sitting alone, fiddling with their wands.

Euphemia and Monty took seats near the back, choosing a table with a young man who looked very nervous and very out of place. He was thickset and round-shouldered, with a shock of orange hair folded over in a side parting.

"Hello, dear," Euphemia said, settling herself down. He started, gulped, smiled.

"Hi," he said, and as his voice wavered, Euphemia felt a pang in her chest. He couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen, perhaps just out of Hogwarts.

"Fleamont Potter," Monty said, holding out his hand. The boy took it and shook, brave smile. "Everyone calls me Monty." He winked. "And my wife." He turned a shoulder aside to allow Euphemia to lean forwards and shake the boy's hand, too. 

"Euphemia, but call me Effie," she said, warmly. His handshake was strong.

"Benjamin Fenwick," he replied. Not a deep voice. "Uh, just Benjy."

"Wonderful to meet you," Monty said, just as the fireplace bloomed green again. Euphemia looked up, and a girl stepped out. Tall, chin tipped up, but her eyes were wide and unfamiliar. There was ash sprinkled over her halo of thick curly hair. Benjy looked over his shoulder, following Euphemia's line of sight, and his eyes lit up.

"Dorcas!" he called, raising a tentative hand. The girl looked around, and she was far too young, too, glossy-eyed and blinking. She saw Benjy and smiled, started to wind her way through the tables, and tucked herself into a seat behind him.

"How do you do?" she said, very properly holding out her hand. "Dorcas Meadowes." Euphemia smiled and took it.

"Effie and Monty Potter," she said. Dorcas lifted her eyebrows.

"Not in any way related to James Potter?" she asked, and she sounded dry and weary.

"Our son," Fleamont said proudly. He frowned. "You know him?" Dorcas hesitated.

"He's a terror, we know," Euphemia said quickly, to put her at her ease. "You're from Hogwarts?"

"I was Head Girl last year," Dorcas said. She bit her lip. "It was a horror of a year." Benjy looked at his hands.

"We know," Euphemia said solemnly. "It must have been so awful."

"Yeah," Dorcas mumbled. She took a breath, shook her hair out of her face, and seemed to brighten. "Well, I'm glad I'm in the right place, at any rate."

 _You're awfully young_ , Euphemia wanted to say, but at that moment, the chatter of the inn broke down into slow silence, and Benjy and Dorcas looked over to the front of the room. Euphemia turned, too, and as the quiet took over, Albus Dumbledore stood from his seat.

"Good evening," he said. Euphemia's eyes drifted over the crowd. Kent Mistry looked strained and mistrustful. Augusta Longbottom sucked on her pipe with a tilt to her nose. Benjy hid his hands in his sleeves. "Thank you all for coming," Albus said gravely. "These are troubling and terrifying times, and I know many of you are risking relationships, family, and even your lives, to be here."

Andromeda Black had a tightness to her shoulders. Her face was drawn, too. Euphemia tore her eyes away sadly.

"We have a mission," Albus began. "Blood purists and Dark magic are on the rise, in tenuous secrecy, and I have called this meeting once again, to find those who may wish to join the coming fight. I will not amble on into specifics if you do not wish to be here, so for all who will, for whatever reason it may be, you have been given an opportunity to leave." He folded his hands together. No one stirred. 

There were hard looks on every face, and a fear winding up Euphemia's belly. But she would not go. She sat firm. Even Benjy, with that shaken look in his eye, was tight-jawed and lock-kneed.

"Well," Albus said, deep voice in the thick silence. "We will begin, then."

†††††††††††††††††††††

Kent and Kabra Mistry were not home. At least, they wouldn't answer the door.

Alastor rapped on the wood again, harder.

"Auror business, open the door!" he called. There-- unsure footsteps, pattering down the hall inside. The handle clicked, turned, and the door swung inwards to reveal a kid in pyjamas, maybe sixteen or seventeen, brown-skinned, a fierce look in his eye.

"Hi," he said. "My Mam- my mum's not home. She just left." Bennet sighed over Alastor's shoulder.

"What's your name, kid?" Alastor asked, pulling his badge from inside his robes. The kid squinted at it.

"Darwin," he said. "Mistry."

"Your ma's Kent Mistry?" Alastor asked. 

"Yes," Darwin replied. "Why? Is she in trouble?" He was wary, Alastor realised. With a family like his, he was right to be.

"Don't worry about it," Bennet said. "Can we come in, wait for your parents?"

"I don't know," Darwin replied. "They didn't say where they were going. Or when they'd be back." His dark gaze flickered between the two of them. "Or what to do if the Ministry came knocking."

"Fair enough," Alastor said. He pulled his pad from his coat, scribbled his office address and name on it. He ripped the page out and handed it to Darwin, and the kid took it with two fingers and stared at it. "When they're back, tell your ma to send me a quick owl. We've got a couple questions for her, concerning your uncle."

Darwin's shoulders tightened, but he nodded.

"Sure."

"Should we talk to him?" Bennet hissed over Alastor's shoulder. Alastor considered this for a second.

"Alright," he muttered, and Bennet stepped forwards.

"Can we just ask you a couple questions, before we go? You're not in any trouble." Darwin looked between the two of them.

"Do I need a lawyer?" he joked, nervously. He looked Alastor up and down. "You were at Hogwarts last summer. With that Vanity girl's fiasco."

"Yeah," Alastor agreed. "And no. You're not a suspect. Of anything. You don't have to talk, though."

"My cousin was kind of twisted up in that," Darwin said boldly. "This is about her, isn't it?"

"She was staying with you a few days ago," Bennet interrupted. "Wasn't she? She talk about her mum much? Her sister? Dad?" Darwin shrugged.

"Nah. Those are touchy subjects. Mostly we went flying on the Heath."

"Fun summer so far?" Bennet asked. Darwin looked at her. Shrugged.

"Sure. Listen, I don't know anything about the shit going on in this family. This is adult drama, you're talking to the wrong person."

"What about the inheritance?" Bennet said, shrewd, and Darwin froze.

"What--" he blurted. "How? How do you know about that?"

"We had a chat with your Granddad," Alastor interjected. Bennet glanced at him warningly. Darwin frowned.

"He's got a big mouth for an old man," he said, rudely.

"We figured that," Alastor agreed. "He said he cut your uncle out to teach him a lesson."

"Apparently," Darwin said, sounding a little bitter. He tipped his chin around the small apartment. "Didn't think about hashing anything out to us, though."

"Seems like there's more going on there," Alastor said. Darwin sniffed.

"Maybe. Give us a call when you finish taking down my aunt, won't you? Maybe we can get compensation." And he shut the door in their faces, suddenly. Alastor took a step back.

"Dead end," Bennet offered, none too helpfully.

"For now," Alastor said. "That inheritance, though...we should look into that. Interesting component in play."

"I'm not really fascinated by the family politics," Bennet said dryly.

"Confounding factor," Alastor offered. He opened his pad again, chewing carefully on his tongue, and flipped through the pages. Masses of his own scribbles, and then-- one page, mostly empty.

 _Alastor Moody & Cara Bennet_, it said, perfect cursive script, and Alastor's fingers paused on the pages.

"Bennet," he said urgently, and she peered over his shoulder. Froze.

_The Hog's Head, 22:30_

_Yours, Albus Dumbledore_

"Son of a bitch," Bennet said softly. "Is this--"

"The Order," Alastor said quickly. He twisted to look at her. "You think?" Bennet tucked on a short lock of blonde hair.

"Yeah," she said. "I thought that was just a... precaution. We've met altogether- once?"

"Preview, maybe," Alastor said, fingering the page. "We should go."

"We've got an investigation," Bennet reminded him.

"An investigation that's off the clock," Alastor said. "What's a little detour? Might get some answers out of the Mistrys, too. I'll bet that's where they are." Bennet hesitated. Tugged on her hair again.

"Okay," she said, finally, a little mournfully. "You know what? Why not?"

"That's the spirit," Alastor said, trying not to sound grave. "Besides, it's all in this war effort, right?" Bennet only grunted.

†††††††††††††††††††††

Aurors Bennet and Moody arrived late, tripping out of the fireplace just as Dumbledore finished his starting speech. Moody made quick eye contact with Kent, and Kent looked away quickly, hoping she didn't look guilty.

She'd heard about the investigation into Sage. She'd heard about Cassidy and Io, and all that mess. She'd been filled with that awful feeling, that _I should have, could have done something_ , for days afterwards. Kabra had been silent and angry, too. At himself, surely. At the two of them, their situation. At Cassidy, most of all.

Moody was still staring. Across the room, Euphemia had her eyes up, too.

Kent stared at her hands.

"We have a veritable force on our hands," Albus was saying. "We must become something to be reckoned with, to combat what is coming. As we build, you will all be given roles, skills, weaponry. I will come to trust you, and you will come to trust each other. For the sake of the future, we will fight this war." His eyes were ice cold, a hard, hard blue. 

Kent averted her gaze from him.

There was a very small part of her, afraid, wanting to cling to the old normal. She didn't want war.

But no one did, surely. Apart from these people, who would kill her and her husband and her father and her son, too, maybe, just for their existence.

They wanted war. And for those reasons, she would damn well fight.

Kent dragged her gaze back to Dumbledore.

†††††††††††††††††††††

Io woke with a heart-stopping jump, and it took a long, terrifying moment for her to realise that James was knocking on her door.

Her door, of her bedroom, in the Potter cottage. 

Io sat up in the dark, wiping her hair out of her eyes, and squinted at the doorway.

Her chair was tucked up under the doorknob. She felt her chest work guiltily. She was safe here.

Io climbed out of bed, pulled the chair away, and opened the door.

The hallway was bright, and she narrowed her eyes, making out James' tall silhouette.

"They've gone," he said, and though she didn't compute his words at first, the only thing she could feel was relief that he wasn't mentioning the chair.

"What?" she asked, blinking in the onslaught of light.

"They've gone," James repeated. "My parents have Floo'd somewhere. Must have been the message."

"So...what do we do?" Io asked. Her mind was still working wearily to catch up. James shrugged.

"I don't know. Find the message?"

"Living room," Io said, through a yawn. James nodded.

"Come on, then," he said, and he turned away. Io waited a second, let her heart calm down, and then she followed him to the stairs.

The living room carpet was dusted with green ash in front of the fireplace. There was a piece of paper on the floor, and James prodded it suspiciously, held it up to the light.

"It's gone," he said, grumpily. "The message is gone."

"James," Io said, pointing towards the fire, and he turned, and saw it too: the flames were blooming green. They both froze, like deer in wandlights. The fire billowed, rounded, and then Darwin's head popped up through the flames.

"Mistry?" James said, creeping closer, bewildered.

"Hey, Potter," Darwin said. He saw Io, and bit his lip. "Io."

"What's wrong?" Io asked, stepping forwards, the ash sticking to her feet.

"Aurors," Darwin said quickly. "They came round after Mamī and Pappa left." Io's heart did a funny little twist. "They're looking for your dad, and Daisy." He hesitated. "They asked me about Cassidy." Io couldn't breathe for a long second. Something acidic stung in her throat. James settled his hand on her shoulder, comfortingly heavy.

"Okay," Io said. "You think they want to talk to me, too?"

"I'd bet on it," Darwin said darkly. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Io said quickly. "Thanks."

"I should go, before my parents come back," he said. "Damn, I wish you weren't involved in this." He looked so painfully sincere.

"I can handle it," Io said, braver than she felt. Darwin managed a grimace.

"You don't have to, Io," he said. Silence fell. "Okay," he said, after a second. "I'm gonna go. See you, soon?"

"Yeah," Io said thickly, trying to ignore the crawling sensation up her spine. "See you." And Darwin disappeared with a _whoof_ of ash and heat.

James squeezed her shoulder.

"It's gonna be okay," he said. 

She would have loved to believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(( sad but also Mad-Eye Moody again!
> 
> Comment and kudos?? <3 thanks


	8. Bars On The Windows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leather jackets and a mystery witness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried to procrastinate by watching YouTube but there was too many ads so here i am i guess. Enjoy

She didn’t know many people there. She knew Benjy, Benjy from Arithmancy, and there was Gwenog Jones, Gwenog off the Gryffindor Quidditch team, glowering in the corner with her arms crossed, stuffed into a curved booth with Billie Plunkett. There were a few kids from school. Because that was all they really were. Kids in adult clothes with their wands clutched in their fists every waking moment now.

There were older people, too. Hogwarts teachers, Hogwarts parents like the Potters, and Dorcas had even seen two Aurors in navy coats a second ago, but they seemed to have melted into the crowd.

It was gloriously, sleepily warm. Dorcas always remembered the Hog’s Head as a sort of grumpy, smoky building, but it was bright that evening, even with the low ceiling and age-sagging tables.

"Unfortunately," Dumbledore was saying, when Dorcas finally snapped out of a dazed kind of study of the room, “there is a reason for this hasty gathering. As I said, Dark forces have been gathering, and not only in Britain. They have been gathering under a man by the name of Tom Riddle, and this has come to a head.” He paused, as if this was paining him. Benjy was picking nervously at his palm. “Late this morning,” Dumbledore said gently, “murder was committed.” The room took a collective sharp breath. Cold crept up Dorcas’s cheeks. “The Ministry was informed within minutes of a disturbance in the house of the Bones family.”

_Bones, Henry Bones, Edgar Bones, Amelia Bones—_

“Jesus,” Benjy muttered, and when Dorcas looked up, he was green in the face. The room was utterly silent.

“Corinthia and Thaddeus Bones are dead,” Dumbledore said. No one moved. Dumbledore bowed his head. 

Dorcas felt like she was glued in place, a little kid’s ghastly panorama, all these drawn faces around her. 

Amelia Bones, a kid from Hogwarts. Her parents were dead. Across from Benjy, Effie Potter let out a small, choking sound.

“Edgar and his husband and sister are safe in Ministry custody,” Dumbledore said, his soft voice ringing harshly across the shocked crowd. “I have called the Order today, with as many of you as I can muster, because we were too late, this morning. We were too late to stop the senseless killing of two of our own.” He glared at the fireplace. “The Order was formed as a precaution, a reserve. Now, I fear, we must become an army. This will happen again if we do not move on the murderers, fast.”

“What about the Ministry?” someone asked, and every head turned. Gwenog Jones sat ramrod straight in her seat, looking utterly unrepentant for her interruption. Dumbledore didn’t look aggrieved either, though. “This is the job of the Aurors. The Ministry was supposed to keep us safe. And this Order, is it sanctioned? Is this an illegal paramilitary group?” Dorcas looked around. She expected some of the older adults to be eyeing Gwenog with a roll of the eyes, patronising stares, but they were all deadly serious.

“The Ministry moves to solve the murder and convict the killer, not uncover the Dark network,” Dumbledore said, agreeably. “If it so suits all of you, we shall be a secret organisation. We are not an offshoot of the Ministry. But no, Miss Jones, we are not illegal.” Gwenog nodded stiffly, and sunk back into her seat. Dumbledore turned eyes to the crowd again. “I want to rise against this. And I want all of you with me. There is a long, dark road ahead, and on that road will be death, and pain, and suffering. If at any point, you wish to leave, you may.” There was a warning behind that, Dorcas could hear it.

He might as well just have come right out with ‘ _if you sneak, you’re dead._ His eyes were ice-cold. 

The war was well and truly upon them.

†††††††††††††††††††††

Alastor went to work.

“Mrs Mistry,” he said, cornering Kent Mistry before she could get to the fireplace, and she rocked back on her heels, wide-eyed. Her husband looked on with a frown.

“Auror,” she said, inclining her head respectfully.

“Moody,” Alastor said.

“I—“

“I need to ask you a few questions, if that’s alright,” he said, just short of demanding. Bennet was watching him, back at the table, scribbling in her pad.

“You’re on the clock?” Kent asked.

“Always,” Alastor replied, grim smile. “It’s about your niece.” Kent’s face closed off immediately, her cheeks compressed, she narrowed her eyes.

“I gave my statement on that matter to the MCPSS,” she said, coldly, and moved to turn away. “Excuse us.”

“Not...that matter,” Alastor replied, and Kent froze.

“What, then?” she asked, and her voice was far too low to be anything but dangerous. “I’d appreciate if the Ministry stayed out of my family business.”

“Believe me, that makes two of us,” Alastor said dryly. Kent scoffed. “This is about the contingent of people who attacked Colin McThaw and James Potter when they attempted to liberate Iona from her house.” Kent licked her upper lip.

“We should go,” her husband muttered, into her ear.

“No,” she said.

“Kent—“

“Go home, Kabra.” She seemed to catch herself. “Please.” Alastor turned to look at Bennet to give them a semblance of privacy. Kent mumbled something. Bennet gave him a thumbs up, and Alastor tipped his head at her.

When he turned back, Kabra was stepping into the fireplace with a handful of Floo powder. Kent had her hands bunched in her robe pockets.

“What do you want to know?” she said, and he could hear her suppressing a tremble in her voice. Alastor managed what he hoped was a kind smile. It probably looked more like a grimace.

“Anything you can tell me,” Alastor said. Kent chewed on her lip.

“We should sit down,” she said. They did, a table over from Bennet. Kent folded her hands into her sleeves. “I haven’t spoken to Sage since I eloped with Kabra,” she started. “But— Io says things. Gale used to say things. When we saw them at the train station before school. Sage would have cars drop them off. Still does.” She hissed out a breath. A strand of hair was coming undone form her plaits. “Wrong details. Um— Gale would drop names sometimes— I don’t know if these are the right people, but they might be the right place to start.” Her expression darkened. “After the Bones— what happened to them today—“ she hesitated, bitter-looking. “Anything helps, right?”

“All in the effort,” Alastor reassured.

“Okay,” Kent said. “Okay, here goes.”

†††††††††††††††††††††

Life at the Potters was very different to Turpford. 

Every morning, Io would wake to a giddy James ripping open her curtains, flooding the room with early morning summer sunlight. Then he would drag her downstairs and they’d gobble down breakfast in pyjamas as the washing up clanked in the soapy sink and Effie de-gnomed the garden and Monty did a few cleaning rounds, the newspaper reading itself aloud beside his head as he dusted and wiped and swept.

They would spend the mornings tossing a worn Quaffle around with kids from the other gardens, bobbing about on their brooms, twenty feet above the fences, occasionally diving into trees, with Effie prodding the wild Flutterby bushes and muttering growing spells under her breath below them.

Monty went to work at something like ten o’clock, and he always came back in the evening smelling like fragrant soaps and fresh ink. Effie went to a Defensive Practical Magic Club at twelve, and James would haul Io into the Muggle town below the hill to get lunch and drool over the new cars and motorcycles in the garage and lounge in car parks behind shiny restaurants hoping they looked like they were up to no good.

They raced home, panting, sweating in the hot afternoon sun, and collapsed in the garden. Jude, who had been stuffed unceremoniously into Io’s coat the day Sirius had turned up outside her window on a broom, had taken to hunting, for the first time, and liked to follow closely on Effie’s heels in the mornings, pouncing on gnome heads whenever he saw them. Sometimes they turned out to be rocks.

Effie would send them upstairs to wash, then downstairs again to chew threw their holiday work, bit by bit.

At supper time, they recounted their wild tales of the day to Monty, while he nodded and hummed and held back a faint look of despair over the state of James’ hair, ruffled by the wind and matted from action.

It started to get peaceful.

†††††††††††††††††††††

"The woman's still in holding back at the Ministry," Alastor said, as they approached the gate to the Potters' front garden. The sun was hot on his shoulders. "We'll go straight there after."

"Yeah," Bennet said. "You want to lead this time? She knows you, right?"

"In the loosest sense, but sure," Alastor replied. The path to the door was paved, moss curling around the edges of the stone like plump cushioning.

"Moody, wait," Bennet said, right as they reached the front door, and Alastor jerked back from knocking.

"What?"

"Why did you want this case?" she asked quietly. In the distance, they could hear whooping and squealing, kids playing. Alastor frowned at her.

"The pursuit of magical justice, Bennet. Can I knock yet?"

"Moody..." Bennet said, fixing him with her one-eyed stare. 

"Come on, Bennet," Alastor replied. "They put Dawlish on this, for Pete's sake. _Dawlish_. He had no idea what to do with a case this big." Bennet raised her eyebrows, and Alastor huffed. "Didn't you hear about it, about the missing Wizengamot member and his stolen kid and his crazy purist wife and maybe, _maybe_ think it might be a little interesting?"

She was silent for a while. Then-

"Yeah, that checks." A shrug. "I just wanted to know why you were so invested."

"They haven't given either of us cases since that '69 fiasco," Alastor grumbled. 

"Doesn't take a genius to figure why," Bennet said heavily, gesturing to her eye. " _Fiasco's_ an understatement."

"It wasn't your fault," Alastor said, gently as he could. Bennet sniffed.

"Well, go on, then," she grunted, breaking the silence, waving her hand at the door. "Let's interrogate a kid in the name of magical justice, shall we? After you."

†††††††††††††††††††††

"Io!" Effie called, from the back door, hands twisted into her apron. "Ministry officials want to speak to you, if you're alright with that." Io touched down, James half a second behind her, and jumped off her broom, discarding it in the moss. Behind Effie, someone was moving about in the kitchen, too bright to see who.

Io brushed leaves off her T-shirt and made for the door. James tripped over his shoelace behind her, then hurried to catch up, right on her heels.

The Aurors from the Curly and Edith investigation were standing awkwardly in the kitchen. The blonde woman with the eye patch was cradling a mug of yellow tea, and the other one, Moody, was glaring around the room from under his thick eyebrows.

"Hi," Io grunted, stuffing her hands into her pockets and lingering on the doormat. Effie ushered her onto the flagstones and towards the table, and Io went reluctantly. Moody pulled out a chair and sat. Io did not.

"James," Effie said quickly, moving over to the kitchen door. James didn't move, surveying the scene with cross eyes. Io made an attempt to visibly relax; she could feel that her shoulders were practically up around her ears. "James," Effie said, sharp now. "Yahaan. Abhi."

James scurried to the door, and it clicked shut behind the two of them, leaving Io alone with the Aurors.

The woman with the eye patch had a notepad out, pen in hand.

"You know you can Charm it to be dictated," she said, trying her best to sound _not nervous_. The woman took a sip of her tea and didn't answer.

"Want to take a seat?" Moody asked.

"No."

"Alright. Fair enough. How's your summer been?" he asked, in quick succession.

"Shitty," Io retorted. "What do you want? Macpiss already came to give their consolations." Her skin was itching, like she should claw out of it and slide into something better. She was spitting her words like they were poison, but it was an involuntary response. Moody didn't look at all taken back.

"We know. We went to talk to your aunt Kent."

"Of course you did. You interrogate my neighbours while you were at it?" Io snorted. Moody watched her for a good long second, so long that Io shifted her gaze, pulled her hands out of her pockets, crossed her arms. It was a dark stare.

Eventually, he said, "Bennet, take a walk." Carelessly, over his shoulder, without taking his eyes off Io. Bennet shut her notepad with a snap and a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, _sir_ ," she muttered, and she left the room. Once again, the door to the hall clicked shut, and silence fell like a thick blanket. Sunlight streamed in from the back doorway, the smell of green plants. Io felt suddenly self-conscious of the stains on her knees and her elbows. Moody's stare didn't relent.

"I know you're nervous, lass," he said. Io had had a biting reply ready on her bottom lip, but she sucked it quickly back in. She swallowed.

"You would be, too." He scoffed.

"Anyone else would be blubbering, I'm sure," he said. He nodded at the chair. "Take a seat, kid." Io thought about sticking it to him.

He didn't much look like a Ministry stiff. He looked like a rogue soldier in someone else's uniform. The collar of his coat was scruffy, and he had his hands loosely in his pockets.

Io dragged the chair out slowly, and threw herself down into it.

"Now what?" she said, half-joking.

"We talked to your aunt Kent," Moody repeated. "She gave us a list of possible names."

"She hasn't talked to the family in years," Io bit back.

"So she said."

Silence fell. There was a chunk of sunlight streaming over Io’s shoulder, warming her through her shirt.

“You get your O.W.L results yet?” Moody asked, conversationally. Io squinted at him.

“They come in a week,” she replied. Moody nodded, eyes narrowed against the bright sunlight. He looked hard at Io.

“This conversation is gonna be hard, kid,” he said. “I don’t sugarcoat. But anything you can give me...well, it might stick your ma in prison a little longer.” Io stared right back at him, her heartbeat kicking up.

“You wanna get to the point?” she asked. Moody raised his eyebrows, but he was already easing a page out of his notebook, carefully tearing it at the top. List of names. He slid it across to her. 

“Now, take your time— don’t look at it, yet— can you tell me anything about that group of people who came to your house? And anything you wanna give on your ma— and da: habits, hobbies, friends.” He sat back, linking his fingers together.

“My mother’s favourite thing to do was kick me around the house,” Io joked, but her throat was closing up. She slid the piece of paper under her palm, pressed down against it. “She lent the house-elves off, before I got home. Don’t know who to. Uh— she read the newspaper. Not the Prophet.” She screwed up her eyes, her vision turning dustily red. _Think_. “Wizarding Guardian,” she said, softly. “Yeah. And she went out a lot, parties, I think. Used to bring me, I never knew where we went. Mostly sat in a corner and ate cake, there were never any other kids.”

“And your da?” Moody prompted, producing a pencil from nowhere and setting it to paper.

“He left in the morning, like seven or seven thirty, came back at night, about nine.”

“Long days,” Moody said.

“Uh—huh. Used to go to the parties, too. When— before fifth year started, they had an argument. About Daisy, I don’t know, really, but he left and didn’t come back until the morning, then he went to work again.” It was all rushing out like bitter-flavoured water. “Someone said Wilkes, downstairs, the last meeting my mother had.” Moody nodded, latching easily onto the sudden change in subject. “That was it. I don’t— I don’t really know them. Well.” She ducked her head. 

“Alright, look at the list, would you?” Moody asked, flipping a page in his notebook, pencil poised again. Io pulled her hand away from the list. 

“Wilkes,” she said, dazedly. “He’s on here. Druella Black?” Moody said nothing. “Unctus! Yeah, Dad tried to get him for— I don’t know, but it got him in trouble.” Moody’s writing was sprawling and messy, and Io squinted harder. “Gorlois Avery...didn’t he run for Minister? Uh, Rookwood—“ she bit her lip— “don’t know.” She skimmed the rest of the list, but a couple were foreign names and nothing else stood out to her. “Sorry,” she said, handing it back.

“Thanks,” Moody said, folding it away. Io locked her fingers together, wondering if she should ask—

“Where’s Arule?” Moody looked up.

“What?”

“My brother,” Io said, her heart contracting with suspicion. “Arule, my brother. Where is he?” Moody hesitated for a second, then shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

“I asked Macpiss, and they said the same thing,” Io said angrily. “Isn’t this a case? Missing child?”

“He’s of age,” Moody said bluntly. “And we searched the house, so he’s not being held prisoner.” He spread his hands, almost regretfully. “Simply, lass, he’s free to go as he pleases, use magic, Apparition. We’d like to talk to him, but technically, we’re not allowed to go hounding him down right now.” Io sat back, frustrated.

“Right,” she growled.

“Thanks for this,” Moody said, tucking his notebook away and standing. “I ‘spect ‘Macpiss’ will be in touch for your ma’s court hearing, and all the rest, housing, care. You’ll need to attend the hearing, but they’ll hold your hand.” Io glared at him as he made his way to the door.

“You’re welcome,” she grunted. Moody laid a hand on the doorknob, then hesitated. 

“I’ll look into where your brother might’ve gone,” he said carefully. “Unofficially.” Silence fell. “See you, kid.” And he left. Io sat, arms crossed, staring angrily at the kettle, and she listened to Effie bid the Aurors goodbye outside.

†††††††††††††††††††††

Cassidy Morrigan-Brewsam’s holding cell was pretty nice, as cells went. She was siting on the threadbare bed, hands clasped over one knee, and her stare was freezing, even through the window.

“I want her in talk room eight,” Alastor said. The guard nodded, reaching for her keys, and Fauche and Bennet rounded the corner of the corridor, talking in low tones. 

“And you really can’t go back to Berlin?” Fauche asked. 

“No,” Bennet snapped. “I told you, transfers are—“

“Bennet, I can’t head a murder case _and_ be in Berlin at the same time.”

“You were meant to fly to Berlin eight hours ago,” Bennet replied acidly, her cheeks burning red. “It’s not my fault you decided to hang around and latch yourself onto the Bones case.”

“Alright, Moody?” Fauche said cheerfully. Alastor narrowed his eyes, and when Fauche turned back to Bennet, his face was sickeningly condescending.

“Bennet, we both know Moody doesn’t need an assistant, alright, and come on. It’s not really your place to—“

“I’m heading the interrogation,” Bennet growled at him. “I am _meant_ to be here, Fauche. You don’t get to question me.” Fauche backed off, hands up, rolling his eyes.

“Alright, alright, Christ. No need to spit fire, _Morgan le Fay_.” Alastor thought about punching him in the mouth, but before he could act on it, Fauche swerved away from the two of them and sauntered off, Bennet glaring hotly at his back.

“I hate him,” she muttered, through gritted teeth.

“Makes two of us,” Alastor replied. Bennet ignored him. The guard flung open the cell door, revealing Cassidy, sitting all proper on her sparse bedclothes. 

“Up,” the guard said stiffly, drawing her wand, and Cassidy obeyed, real slow, smoothing down her skirt. “Incarcerous.” Ropes whipped out of the end of the guard’s wand, and lashed themselves tight around Cassidy’s wrists in front of her, finishing off with a quick knot. Cassidy lifted her chin. “Out,” said the guard, jerking her head towards the corridor, and Cassidy walked forwards, eyeing Alastor and Bennet hungrily.

They made a strange procession, bound Cassidy and her entourage of a scowling Bennet, a broad-shouldered guard, and Alastor, stumping along behind with his hands in his pockets.

Cassidy was sat forcefully in her seat in room eight, and the guard stood at her shoulder, both of them facing away from the door. Bennet took her seat opposite Cassidy, and Alastair lounged by the false window, looking out at the rain lashing the sky. Magical Maintenance were angling for a pay rise, then.

The interrogation didn’t take long, mostly because Cassidy was harshly tight-lipped. But then—

“Your sister in law gave us a few names to follow up on,” Bennet said, all casual, and Cassidy stiffened ever so slightly. Bennet didn’t miss it, sharp-eyed. She tilted her head.

“Kent always has been a long-nosed cow,” Cassidy said, finally. “That’s my business.”

“Your daughter helped confirm a few.” Bennet was digging her heels in, finding a crack, exploiting it. This, _this_ was why she was so good at her job.

“My _daughter_ ,” Cassidy said sharply, “is a very confused, scared little girl.”

“She didn’t seem scared to me,” Bennet replied. “She seemed eager to help land your arse in Azkaban.” Cassidy’s breathing quickened, then evened out. “Do you know where your husband is?”

“If I did, he’d know about it,” Cassidy said, tightly.

“Do you miss your younger daughter?”

“Perpetually,” Cassidy replied. Through gritted teeth.

“And does the name Rookwood mean anything to you?” Bennet asked. Cassidy really flinched that time, and valiantly attempted to cover it up with a flick of her hair.

“No,” she said. And that was pretty much all Bennet managed to get out of her.

“You did good,” Alastor said, the second they were outside.

“I know,” Bennet replied. “Tight-lipped bitch.”

“We need to find the husband,” Alastor said, and Bennet nodded.

“Let’s piece together all the transcripts, see if we can’t glean something we missed. He’s out there, somewhere.”

†††††††††††††††††††††

Daisy spent her days indoors. For a few hours a day, the sun would beam in through the attic window, and she would lie in it, pretend the hard wood floor was a bed of leafy moss, close her eyes, and soak it in.

Dad would leave and return at odd intervals, sometimes for hours at a time, sometimes scurrying back in after barely twenty minutes.

There was nothing to do that day in the attic. Daisy watched the planets fly around the edge of Dad’s watch, laying on her stomach, the floor pressing into her hips. 

The room was dusty, one little candle burnt halfway down, set on a rickety table, two chairs crowding the table. One small crooked bed, where Daisy slept, and a mass of blankets where Dad slept, always muttering and tossing fitfully. There was an ancient bathroom, tiny, a four foot long bath with clawed feet, a toilet, and a sink hanging onto the wall with its pipes and its will.

There was a noisy family living below them. A baby was crying today, and someone was riding a bike around and around, thumping over objects, the whole building creaking. A pan clashed, and someone burst into gleeful laughter. Daisy pressed her ear to the musty planks and wished and wished she could go and play.

Heavy feet thumped into the stairs outside, and the door to the attic swung suddenly open. Daisy looked up. A pair of worn leather shoes stared back at her.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hullo, darling,” he said, moving away, his soles squeaking. There was a rustle of a paper bag, and Daisy caught a sweet, floury smell—

“Pastries?” she exclaimed, struggling to her feet. Dad had set the bag down on the table, and he threw himself into a chair, rubbing his temple with one palm. Daisy rifled through the bag, and pulled out a Chelsea bun, warm and sticky and sugary. She groaned in delight, and tore off a piece, shoving it into her mouth; Dad appeared to have fallen asleep, draped over the chair. Daisy kicked the door shut quietly, snagged a blanket from Dad’s bed with her one un-sticky hand, and laid it carefully over him.

She sat down in the other chair and chewed her way through the heavenly bun, listening to the thumps and giggles from below.

Soon enough, the bun was gone. Daisy licked her fingers clean, looked at the watch on the floor, looked at Dad.

He wouldn't notice if she slipped out, just for a little bit. If she only went downstairs, introduced herself to the family. Maybe they’d invite her in to play. No one would know.

She’d been holed up in small rooms for _months_ , she’d been so good, and she’d only been allowed outside twice. Both times had been when they’d hopped from one tiny place to the next.

Daisy looked at the door. Daisy looked at Dad.

She crossed the room, wriggled the doorknob, and the latch gave, the door swinging open on uneven hinges. The stairs beyond were sagging and dark and crooked, and Daisy started carefully down them.

†††††††††††††††††††††

“Now, you don’t want to dress to the nines for a court hearing,” Effie said, rounding the mirror with a blouse, “but you do want to make a good impression.” Io rubbed her eyes, yawning. It was far too early, she hadn’t been given a chance to straighten her hair like usual, and she was half dressed, hopping in and out of different sets of clothing. “We should have done this last night,” Effie said brightly, throwing Io a pair of black trousers.

“Am I wearing robes over the top?” Io asked.

“Oh, I don’t think so. You don’t have any casual robes, do you?”

“Oh. No.”

“No robes, then,” Effie said. “We can go into town on our way and get you a Muggle jacket or something. Here, nice and plain.” She draped a blue collared shirt over Io’s shoulders and stood back, surveying. “Well. Maybe we should go _floral_ ,” she joked.

“Absolutely not,” Io snorted, still struggling into the trousers, and Effie laughed.

†††††††††††††††††††††

In the end, it was too late to take Io down to town, and James had to fly instead, taking the backstreets to remain secret, and Effie worried about him all the way through doing Io’s hair.

“I don’t trust that boy’s fashion sense,” Effie grumbled. Monty, hanging by the doorway and stroking Jude, laughed.

“Have a little faith,” he said.

“He got Sirius paisley curtains for Christmas two years ago because he thought they were trousers,” Io put in, just to see the look on Effie’s face. Monty barked another laugh.

“Oh, Merlin,” Effie groaned. The door opened downstairs, and she jumped nervously. “That’s him. Monty, get it, would you?” Io grinned at herself in the mirror, and Monty saluted and disappeared. His footsteps thundered down the stairs.

“Dear God,” they heard him say, distantly.

“Oh, no,” Effie whined. “Alright, that’s your hair done, my lovely. I can teach you again another time, and it’s a little rushed, but—“

“Thank you, Effie,” Io said, beaming at her, and Effie melted with a smile. James swung around the edge of the doorway, Monty on his heels, and he waved something dark and leather at the two of them. Effie adjusted her glasses.

“James Potter,” she said, severely. “Are those _leather jackets_?” Io looked over, and burst into laughter.

They were. James was clad in one with epaulets and silvery buttons, and he had three more in his arms.

“Why on earth did you get four?” Monty asked from behind him, utterly bemused.

“For all of us!” James insisted. He sorted through them. “Sirius already has one, we can be matching! Found a girl’s one, Io, here,” and he tossed it right at her face. Io caught it, still giggling. “Sirius is going to love this. Don’t know if I got Peter’s size right, but—“ Monty groaned, burying his face in his hands, and Effie put her fists on her hips, straining to hold back a smile.

“Io,” Monty said, muffled, “you are absolutely _not_ wearing a leather jacket to a court hearing.

†††††††††††††††††††††

Io wore the jacket to the court hearing.

The MCPSS met them at the Ministry, Io and James flanked by Monty and Effie, and they probably look a right daft group.

“Morning,” James said to the Inspector, Pennyfeather. Pennyfeather was tall and ginger, with a truly shocking set of eyebrows and a way of holding himself that reminded Io of a thicker, more articulate flamingo with a more solemn fashion sense.

“What on earth are you wearing?” Pennyfeather asked, looking alarmed from over the top of his croissant.

“You wish you looked this cool,” James retorted, when Io said nothing. She couldn’t, really. She was staring at the door to the courtroom, deep black over Pennyfeather’s shoulder, and the chatter of the group was melting around her ears. Everything was coming short, her breath, her heartbeat, her thoughts, and her fingers were numbing in her pockets.

If she’d thought she was ready, she was wrong.

“Io?” Pennyfeather said worriedly, peering down at her.

“Yes,” Io said, immediately, unconsciously. She blinked, made an effort to drag herself back to Earth. “Sorry. Hullo. What?”

“I was saying the charges have changed,” Pennyfeather said, uncomfortably. “A new witness has come in, accusing Cassidy Morrigan-Brewsam of malicious use of the Dark Arts.” Io’s ears rung. “Are you alright? You know, you really can drop this if you need to.” Pennyfeather never referred to Io’s mother as her mother. He always used her full name. Right now, Io found it strangely bolstering.

“No,” she managed, her tongue thick in her mouth. “No, I want to— I want to do this. Who’s...who’s the other witness?”

“I’m not allowed to know,” Pennyfeather said, sounding apologetic. “Remember, though, it’s not a public trial, so I’m going to be pretty much the only friendly face in there.”

“You’re going to be okay,” James muttered, from somewhere above her. Io vaguely registered how much he’d grown over the summer. She just hadn’t noticed before.

“Yeah,” she said. She rubbed her thumb over the sleeve of her jacket, shrinking into it. Monty’s hand squeezed her shoulder once, then fell away, and Effie gave her a strong smile. Io tried to remember how to breathe. Pennyfeather checked his watch.

“Let’s get going,” he said, and Io stepped away from the Potters. All her scaffolding seemed to fall away; she had to stand on her own now.

Pennyfeather turned and led the way down the corridor, scattering flakes of croissant on the pristine black floor. There were red-robed Wizengamot members all around her, talking in hushed tones, flipping pages of parchment, scratching hurried notes as they walked in zigzags towards the toilets.

“Remember the basics,” Pennyfeather was saying, checking on her over his shoulder, and Io did her best to listen. “Don’t lie. Don’t exaggerate. Be prepared to talk about anything, but know that you can pass questions, unless the judge orders you to answer.”

“Got it,” Io gasped. Air wasn’t coming naturally to her. The corridor seemed more like a train tunnel than part of a building.

“It’s going to be fine,” Pennyfeather said, and he opened the door to the courtroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCPSS/‘Macpiss’ : Magical Child Protection and Safety Service
> 
> because I refuse to accept that the wizarding world has NO support system for underage magical people
> 
> Thank you VERY much li0nheart, the absolute DARLING who has supported this story from the beginning and been my only commenter and BIGGEST fan for...a while? Aa long time, let’s say 😂 go and check out her series, it’s incredible writing, leave her ALL the love! (You deserved a shoutout)
> 
> Pls comment :) concrit is welcome and kudos are ADORED
> 
> if you’re confused about family relations, go back a chapter and check out the link to my Tumblr (@carloabay if ur lazy) or if you just want to message me with any questions!! (Get in on the info while you’re here because this story is about to get a whole lot more magically and mythically crazy! Stay tuned and remember that I love ya)


	9. By Judge And Jury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Io attends her mother’s trial as witness for the prosecution, but there’s more in store for her than she’d anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i changed some bits from normal, non-magic courts, but the procedure’s the same pretty much. Also i cut it down a bit. Anyway enjoy

Io took a seat next to Pennyfeather at the front benches, keeping her eyes on the smooth, black floor, her heart making a horrid, erratic beat against her sternum. It was warm and bright from the three huge chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and Io shrugged reluctantly out of her jacket, rolled up her blouse sleeves.

“This is Prosecutor Windle,” Pennyfeather was saying, and Io looked up. A woman in a dark blue Muggle suit winked at her, tight-wound curls in clouds around her ears, thin black eyes, sparkling with intelligence. Windle held out a hand, and Io shook it.

“Hi,” Windle said.

“Hi,” Io croaked, and she looked back at the floor, dropping Windle’s hand. There was another man in the pew as well, the other Inspector for the MCPSS.

“And you’ve met Inspector O’Flaherty.”

“Yes, we’ve met,” O’Flaherty said, straightening his faded tie around his thick neck. He had a coffee cup in one hand, a smudge of butter and toast crumbs on his left sleeve. Io ignored him.

“Shouldn’t be long, now,” Pennyfeather said kindly. “We’re due to start in a minute or so.” As if on cue, the chatter of the court faded suddenly, and the click of four sets of shoes echoed loudly throughout the chamber. Io dug her short fingernail into the sleeve of her jacket on her lap, leaving a crescent shaped imprint. She moulded the material with her fingers, shaking fingers. Pennyfeather watched her out of the corner of his eye.

“Please stand to welcome the Wizengamot and high Judge to the chamber!” called the clerk, a sickly-looking man with a short mop of straight black hair, and the attendants swept to their feet, Io supporting herself with a hand on the bench behind her. Still, she didn’t dare to look up.

When everyone was seated, the trial began.

“This court is now in session,” called the judge severely. “Please call forth the defendant, Mrs Cassidy Morrigan-Brewsam.”

“Present, your honour,” someone said, and with a rustle, someone else stood. Io had the urge to squeeze her eyes shut.

“Mrs Morrigan-Brewsam, accused of one account of physical and mental child abuse and four accounts of malicious use of Dark Magic, pleads not guilty,” relayed the clerk. “You may sit down.” Another rustle, accompanied by the stenographer’s quill, scratching over parchment. “May we please hear the Oath of Warlock’s Affirmation and counsel for the prosecution’s case?”

Beside Pennyfeather, Windle stood, smoothing out her trousers, and stepped forwards.

“Prosecutor Windle, assigned by the MCPSS,” she said, as an introduction. There were notes on the table in front of them, beside a candle, but she didn’t look at them.

“Repeat after me...” the clerk began, and Io tried to drift out of focus, listening to the whisper of the stenographer’s writing, tuning out Windle’s stern voice.

The case talk was over far too soon, and it was Io’s turn. She waited for the clerk to call her name, and her palms turned sweaty and cold, every other part of her burning hot. She screwed her eyes shut, opened them again, breathed, breathed.

“Witness for the prosecution on one account of abuse of a minor,” said the clerk, “Miss Iona Morrigan-Brewsam, please stand to take the Oath of Warlock’s Affirmation.” Io stood, on watery knees, and Pennyfeather got to his feet, too.

“Alright,” he said quietly, turning to her. “Wand out, and repeat after me.” Io drew her wand, and raised it slightly, pointed at the ceiling. She cleared her throat. “I do solemnly and sincerely and truly declare and affirm,” Pennyfeather said in low tones.

“I do solemnly and sincerely and truly declare and affirm,” Io said, her voice carrying clearly, strong. Pennyeather gave her an encouraging smile.

“In loyalty to wizarding justice...”

“In loyalty to wizarding justice,” Io repeated.

“That the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“That the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” she finished. The clerk nodded, and she lowered her wand, still feeling weak in the stomach.

“Please answer from the prosecutor, in all the detail you are able, with your evidence collected against Mrs Morrigan-Brewsam on this accusation of abuse of a minor,” said the clerk. Windle nodded to the notes on the desk, their collection of evidence and the things Io had to say. Io turned to the face the courtroom, the collection of the Wizengamot, the stern judge, and her mother, sitting primly on the other side of the aisle, with a cold, cold look on her face.

“How long has this woman been committing abuse against you?” asked Windle gently.

Io faltered.

Her mother was staring, dark-eyed, thin-lipped. Io tried very, very hard to breathe properly, but it was hard when her stomach felt like four snakes writhing in a bucket of ice. She felt like she was expanding, swelling, like her consciousness was floating somewhere up high above her, spying on her frozen body, completely detached. Next to Io’s mother, the Auror, Moody, was standing in robes, sleeves rolled up, and he raised his eyebrows at her to catch her attention. Io tried to focus on him. He nodded, ever so slightly.

“Miss Morrigan-Brewsam?” the clerk prompted, and Io landed rudely back in her own head. The stenographer had stopped writing, quill poised. Io cleared her throat again, and looked down at the notes.

“Uh— since I was eight,” Io managed. Windle nodded. O’Flaherty slurped on his coffee. She could do this. She _would_ do this. Io stared her mother straight in the eyes, her stomach boiling.

The questions were painful and they dredged up old memories and they seemed to take forever, but when they were over, the clerk dismissed her and called up the defence counsel, and Io collapsed shakily onto the bench.

“You did well,” Windle hissed over Pennyfeather’s shoulder, a thumbs up, and Pennyfeather handed Io a wriggling gummy worm, for some reason, fluffy from his pocket. She crammed it into her mouth and chewed. Across the courtroom, next to Io’s mother, Moody winked at her. Io made an effort to roll her eyes, then slumped into her seat.

The defence counsel was making their case, and seeing as there were no witnesses for the defence, it looked pretty cut and dry, or so Windle whispered into Pennyfeather’s ear a few feet away. Io scuffed her toes on the floor.

“See, there’s not much more you have to do,” Pennyfeather said gleefully. O’Flaherty said nothing, and Pennyfeather poked him in the ribs. O’Flaherty jumped.

“You alright so far?” he mumbled reluctantly, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Hm,” Io grunted.

“I know this must be hard for you because she’s your mother—“ O’Flaherty started.

“It’s not,” Io replied sharply.

“—and because deep down, you love her—“

“I don’t,” Io snapped. She felt like being sick.

“Alright then,” O’Flaherty grumbled, returning to his coffee. Pennyfeather muttered something under his breath.

“We move on to the four accounts of malicious uses of Dark Magic, to which the defendant pleads not guilty,” said the clerk. “Counsel for the prosecution, please make your case.” Someone sidled up on the other side of Windle, a latecomer, but Io ignored them. She wasn’t needed for this. She was almost done.

Windle made the case, and Io didn’t listen, counting the tiles on the walls, craning her neck up as the ceiling curved out above her, squinting through the candlelight.

“Witness for the prosecution,” said the clerk, “Master Arule Morrigan-Brewsam, please stand and take the Oath of Warlock’s Affirmation.” Io snapped her head around so fast she cricked her neck, and beyond Windle, Arule, pale and stoic, stood.

Io’s head was going a million miles an hour as Arule took the oath, and Pennyfeather was blinking rapidly. Windle seemed perfectly at ease.

“Jemima!” Pennyfeather hissed, and Windle looked around. Penyfeather gestured sharply at Arule. “What the hell?” Windle’s gaze fell on Io, clutching her jacket with white knuckles, and horror drew over her eyes like a veil.

“You didn’t know?” she whispered, and Io shook her head.

“It’s fine,” she managed. Over their quiet argument, Arule faltered in his answers. It was not fine. It was not fine that Arule thought to disappear for days and then pop up just in time for the hearing, without coming to look for her or even warn her. Io bit down on her tongue and tried to calm herself. It wasn’t a big deal.

“...numerous rituals,” Arule was saying. “Particularly recognisable from certain symbols also sometimes used in Paganist culture and used to invoke old magic.” There was a rustle from the Wizengamot. Io tried to tune out again, tried to fly back into that numbing stage of detachment, but all she could muster was a stream of consciousness that just about kept her from hearing the noise around her.

_Animagus sunrise. James arguing and scuffling with Peter, Sirius’s low voice, the mountains and the Forest turning gold and fiery with the onslaught of brilliant light in the sky._

“Witnesses for the defence,” the clerk said, and Io fell out of her stupor. “Mrs Walburga Black and Mr Orion Black, please stand and take the Oath of Warlock’s Affirmation.” Io blinked four times, shock hitting her once again, like a dull punch to the sternum. A clatter of chairs, a snap of feet, and the Blacks, _Sirius’s parents_ , stood on the other side of the aisle, dressed in velvet cloaks and resplendent robes.

Io’s mother was smiling faintly, nastily.

Like she’d done it on purpose.

Io scanned the attendants desperately, and her eyes fell on Sirius and Regulus, hunched in their seats. That shock again, in the gut this time, driving the air out of her. Sirius was pale in the candlelight, bruised under-eyes, veins standing out, electric blue under the skin of his neck. Regulus was small and crumpled, a sharp, creased frown on his face. They were both wearing high collars, cloaks over shirts, but where Regulus’s hair was carefully combed and tied back, Sirius’s was curling around his ears and at the back of his head, stuck up and frizzy.

Sirius looked over, met her eyes, and in that glance, she saw an apology, a host of regrets, a tide of shame, in the downturn of his mouth, the twitch of an eyelid. Io looked at her hands, hoping they weren’t shaking. Her blood rushed in her head.

Half and hour more, half an hour of the Blacks religiously defending all of Io’s mother’s mistake while Io sat there, sweating, shivering, chewing on her tongue, thinking about sunrises and Sirius’s pale, apologetic face, until the clerk spoke again, his clear voice filtering through the mess and noise of Io’s spinning head.

“The Wizengamot will retire to come to a verdict,” he said. “The attendants are dismissed for now.” A hammer fell, splitting Io’s head like an axe, and the court broke out into loud chatter.

O’Flaherty loomed over her and Pennyfeather frowned at her, concerned. Sirius and his whitened face were swallowed up by the crowd like clouds over the moon.

“I need to pee,” Io blurted, fighting the urge to just bolt. O’Flaherty frowned, mouth half-open.

“Out the door, turn left, down the corridor and turn right,” Windle said vaguely, reorganising her notes, and Io stood, her legs shaking, and made for the exit.

It was difficult. There seemed to be thousands of robed figures between her and the door, people with stacks of papers under their arms, interns, lawyers, all the attendants shuffling together, bodies pressing in around Io.

Finally, the crowd spat her out through the doorway and Io spun dizzily, left, she hoped, and lurched down the corridor, bumping into people. Her stomach leapt queasily and she clapped a hand over her mouth, head pounding, hot down her chest, her legs, the back of her neck.

When she got to the grey-tiled ladies toilets, three robed figures were just leaving, and the cubicles beyond were all blessedly empty.

Io locked herself in the end one, flipped the lid down and sat on top of it, then buried her face in her knees and tried to _breathe_. It wasn’t an easy task. All the air seemed to only come in uneven gulps, at odd intervals, but before long, with her cheeks squeezed between her legs, the floor stopped tipping back and forth beneath her feet. She took steady breaths, counting seconds in and out.

She didn’t think. Her cheeks were hot and feverish.

When everything seemed cleaner, clearer, Io sat up. She was still clutching her jacket, but she no longer needed to vomit.

Io stepped out of the cubicle, slowly. Made her way steadily to the sinks, and her reflections in the mirrors, five or six of her, drew closer and closer, flushed and drawn. She dumped her jacket beside one of the sinks and reached for the curved tap handle, twisted it hard.

A jet of cold water came streaming out, hitting the bowl of the sink forcefully. Droplets of water sprayed over her blouse, darkening it, and Io braced one hand on the sink, stuck her other fingers under the water. It cooled her instantly, a heavenly chill, and she cupped her palm and splashed some on her cheeks. Water dripped from her face into the sink, and she breathed slower, counting in and out.

She left the bathroom a few moments later, avoiding the gaze of a dumpy old woman who held the door for her, and she was almost back in the courtroom when—

“Io!” someone hissed, urgently, and Io whipped around, scanning the people milling around in the hallway. “Over here!” She followed the voice, and her eyes landed on an arm, waving from behind a pillar. Sirius stuck his head around, his hair even wilder now, and gestured sharply at her. Io hurried over.

“Hi,” she said, breathlessly, and Sirius grabbed her, flung his arms around her shoulders. “Umf—“ Io said, into his cloaked shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius said, as they separated, bright eyes scanning her face. “I knew you'd be there, they made me come—“

“It’s okay,” Io said. She managed a wan smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Oh,” Sirius said, roughly. “I- okay.” They stood in silence for a second. Sirius cleared his throat. “You look— nice.” Io managed, just about, not to turn red.

“You look like Dracula,” she said, and Sirius cracked a smile. She realised, she didn’t have to think about breathing. She looked up, and he was smiling ever so slightly, a sliver of white teeth behind his lip, the candlelight casting monstrous shadows in the caves of his eyes, over his sharp cheeks.

She thought about telling him that she’d only gotten through it because of the thought of that sunrise, curled against him while they waited for a new day, smelling cigarettes and expensive soap and ink off his jacket, listening to his voice grinding through her ear. Her heart started thundering— should she tell him? What would he say?

He was still grinning faintly at her.

“I like your jacket,” he said, and Io’s heart trembled against her rib cage. She looked down.

“Oh! Thanks. James got it for me. It was hot, though. I had to take it off.” Io stopped herself from tripping into an embarrassing ramble, but Sirius look endeared.

“We can be matching,” he said, smiling wider now.

“I think that was the point,” Io said. They were still standing very close together. The bottom of Sirius’s cloak was brushing her shoe.

“I should go,” Sirius said, quickly, and Io nodded instantly, stepping back.

“Yeah, me too. They’re probably...wrapping up.”

“I’ll see you,” Sirius said, almost hopefully, and Io nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. He moved off, collar trailing, and as it did so, Io caught a flash of a purple-black patch of skin, just below his jaw. She frowned, craning after him, but a second later, he’d vanished into the crowd.

That sickened feeling started to return to her stomach.

†††††††††††††††††††††

She was back before Dad had even realised she’d been gone.

The kids downstairs had invited her to play in the hallway with them, the smell of pancakes drifting out through the door of the apartment as the mother had made everything by hand, mixing batter, lighting the hob with the gas switch. Daisy wanted to watch, but she _also_ wanted to play capture the flag in the thin hallway and up and down the stairwell.

When it was over, and they’d successfully subdued the enemy team by sitting on them, Daisy said goodbye and crept back upstairs, slipping into the attic without waking Dad, and then she took her seat back at the table and stated innocently folding the paper pastry bag into an aeroplane.

He didn’t need to know. It was her own little secret.

†††††††††††††††††††††

“The verdict reached by the jury, please,” said the judge sternly, when the court had settled down, and the clerk stood.

“The jury,” he said, and Io held her breath. Over the aisle, her mother had her eyes closed tight. Sirius was twisting his fingers into knots. “Find the defendant guilty on one charge of abuse of a minor, and guilty on three accounts of malicious use of Dark Magic.” Pennyfeather made a small, suppressed sound of joy, and Windle jumped in her seat. Io sat, frozen. This was good. This was good.

The entire court looked to the judge. The judge knotted his fingers.

“And the verdict reached by your honour,” said the clerk, expectantly. Io stared straight ahead, so long her eyes started to water.

“Guilty,” said the judge, and the hammer fell and the court exploded into noise. “Order!” roared the judge, but the room was in pieces; Windle was grinning like a maniac, Pennyfeather was pumping the air with his fist, the interns attending at the back were chattering like swallows, the Blacks were fuming furiously in their seats, Moody was high-fiving two Magical Law Enforcement Squad Hit Wizards, and Io’s heart was soaring on wings of relief and candlelight.

She caught Sirius’s eye across the aisle, and he was smiling, a bright flash of teeth, not bothering to keep a straight face.

“Order!” thundered the judge, slamming his fist on his pulpit, and gradually, gradually, the tumultuous noise petered out into reluctant silence. The judge glared around, and the clerk imitated him. “Mrs Cassidy Morrigan-Brewsam, on behalf of the Ministry of Magic and wizarding justice, I, Judge Bones, having convicted you of one account of abuse of a minor and three accounts of malicious use of the Dark Arts, sentence you to forty-three years and eight months in Azkaban as punishment for your crimes. Court dismissed.” Once again, a wave of noise broke over the crowd, and Io laughed, for some odd reason, the sound gulping out of her mouth, resting her head back to stare past the bright chandeliers and up to the dark ceiling. Pennyfeather was whooping in glee next to her.

“You did it!” he cried, grabbing Io’s hand and pumping it up and down like he was meeting a celebrity. “Good on you, kid!” Io couldn’t wipe the grin away. Really, she hadn’t done much. She looked up, and her mother was staring helplessly, stonily, at the tiled floor, a muscle working in her jaw. A bitter, savage, airy triumph burst out of Io like a Hippogriff taking flight.

She was _free_.

†††††††††††††††††††††

Arule had vanished, as easily as a cloud on a windy day. Io looked vainly for him in the courtroom, jumping up on her seat to a disgusted stare from O’Flaherty, but he was long gone. She sighed, grabbed her jacket, and made for the exit, leaving the Inspectors behind.

James threw himself on her the second Io came out of the door. He almost knocked her over, and then he was thumping her back and squeezing the air out of her at the same time.

“James-“ Io gasped, and he let go with a quick apology.

“Heard the cheering,” he said brightly. “Fuck, this’ll be in the _newspapers_ , Io. How many years did she get?”

“Almost forty-four,” Io said, grinning, and James whooped.

“You did it!” he said, and engulfed her in another massive hug.

“Sirius is here,” Io said, when they’d separated, and James craned instantly around the busy hallway, but the Blacks were far ahead of them, marching for the stairs. James sagged.

“Io!” Effie called, struggling past two tall Wizengamot members, Monty behind her, holding his briefcase high above his head.

“Forty-four years, Mum!” James said, and Effie smiled sadly.

“Well done, darling,” she said. “Unfortunately, you will have to have a few more conversations with the MCPSS back at home, but thats smooth sailing.” She pulled Io into a one-handed hug, and Monty gave her his toothiest grin over Effie’s hair.

“We should get to the Portkey,” Monty said, over the noise of the crowd, after Effie had released Io.

“Uh—“ James said, squinting past the gaggle of Wizengamot members. “Dad, are those reporters?”

“Good God,” Monty grumbled, checking over his shoulder. Io looked, and saw bright camera flashes lighting up one side of the hallway, where Law Enforcement guards were struggling to pull her mother through the crowd. Thick purple smoke was wafting towards the ceiling from the cameras. One of the reporters caught sight of Monty, and then Io, and her eyes widened.

“Alright, hang on to me,” Effie said, and she gripped Io’s wrist and the back of James’s shirt, and began to haul them bodily through the crowd, swanning past the reporters with a wall of bodies in between.

“Go, go, go!” Monty called from behind them, shunting people aside with his briefcase, and in the madness of it all, sprinting down the court corridors with James by her side, Io started to giggle.

†††††††††††††††††††††

 **Eleven months ago**

_”Alright, Arule, listen to me,” Dad said, and his eyes were wide and pale in the dusky afternoon light. Arule blinked, his wrist in Dad’s iron grip. Io’s piano playing drifted out through the open front door. Dad hurried through his pockets one-handed, and drew out some kind of pendant, white bone on a string, but before Arule could study it properly, Dad had stuffed it into his hand. Arule closed his fingers around it, trying not to shake. “You need to be brave for me, alright?” Dad asked. There were shadows under his eyes._

_“What’s going on?” Arule asked, searching his father’s face. Nothing. Blank as parchment. “Dad,” he said urgently. Dad’s eyes flickered towards the front door._

_“I’m in trouble,” he managed, eventually. Arule’s heart seemed to drop into his stomach with a splash. “But promise me, boy, **promise** me you’ll keep that safe.” He nodded to Arule’s closed fist. “It is very important. I’ll come back soon to collect it, I promise.” Arule blinked, terror welling up inside him._

_“What happened? I don’t understand—“_

_“I tried to take some people down,” Dad said, in a low voice. “Some very powerful, pissed-off people. I couldn’t fix a rift with Grandad, and I’ve lost the inheritance, I can’t make it up with Kent, and I’ve put us all in danger.” He squeezed his eyes shut, bowing his head, lips moving soundlessly._

_“Dad,” Arule choked, “please, I don’t understand, what do you want me to do?”_

_“I want you to keep that safe,” Dad snapped, his head coming up sharply. “Keep it safe and secret, and don’t breathe a word of what I’ve told you to anyone, not even Io, especially not Io. Can you do that?” Arule stared at him. His heart thundered in his chest._

_”Yes,” Arule managed, finally. “Yes, I can.”_

_“Good man,” Dad breathed, and he cuffed Arule lightly on the shoulder. “You’re all we’ve got, Arule. That pendant is yours, now.” He straightened, looked out down the garden path to the dusty road beyond, and squared his shoulders. “I’ll be back,” he promised, but Arule couldn’t tell who he was talking to; the house? Him?_

_A sudden wind picked up, slamming the front door with a **crack** , and Arule jumped, turned to see the handle rattling in the breeze. When he looked back to say goodbye, his father had vanished already._

†††††††††††††††††††††

**Present Day**

Arule smoothed the pad of his thumb over the bone pendant for what had to be the millionth time. He felt sick, like someone was churning butter in his small intestine.

He’d done the right thing. He’d done what he had been told to do.

Sunlight pried golden fingers through the boards of the shed, and Arule turned the pendant, watching the light catching dully on its tiny features.

The raven glared up at him, delicate little claws and a wicked, curved beak.

“Who do you want?” Arule hissed at it. “Do you want me?” The raven stared blankly back.

“Boy, are you in there?” someone said, roughly, deep, and Arule started with fright, quickly tucking the pendant away.

“Yes,” he said, forcing the tremble from his voice. The handle jiggled on the door, the door swung inwards, and a huge figure blotted out the light from inside. Rookwood stepped in quickly, closing the door behind him, brushing grass off his boots.

“Couldn’t have chosen a better rendezvous than a Muggle shed?” Rookwood asked distastefully, glaring around at the spades and clay pots. Arule stood from his seat on the plastic bag of compost, brushing muck off the seat of his trousers.

“I did what you said,” he replied. His fingers were shaking, and he stuffed them into his pockets.

“I know,” Rookwood said. “I heard the news. Heard the cheering, too. Good lad.” He attempted a smile that looked more like a rocky grimace.

“What now?” Arule asked.

“Now,” Rookwood growled, and there was a gleam in his eye, “we test you.”

He’d been waiting for this moment. And it had finally come.

†††††††††††††††††††††

“You have essentially three options,” O’Flaherty said, with barely concealed boredom. He slid two forms across the warm kitchen table to Io with the tips of his large fingers. “You can be adopted by your brother until you leave Hogwarts—“

“No,” Io said flatly, and O’Flaherty raised his eyebrows. There was no way Arule would be coming back for her, not after his disappearances. Vaguely, she wondered what had changed since the last school year, when he’d been so adamantly protective over her. Maybe he’d changed over Easter, when she’d stayed resolutely at Hogwarts, and he’d only come back for exams in June and July...

“Right,” O’Flaherty said. “Well, then, there’s board provided by the MCPSS for parentless children—“

“I’m not an orphan,” Io snapped. “And anyway, I turn seventeen next March.”

“Law states you require a guardian, person or collective, until you turn of age,” O’Flaherty drawled. He tapped his pen impatiently as Io scowled.

“Which law?” she challenged, knowing she was losing the argument.

“Section twenty-three, Article two hundred and eight of the underage act,” O’Flaherty rattled off, “all minors (persons under the age of seventeen) require a legal guardian up to the seventeenth birthday.” He tilted his head. “Up to you, sweetheart.” Io bristled.

“Can’t I just stay here for the rest of the holidays? It’s only two and a half weeks left,” she said hopefully. O’Flaherty clicked his tongue and produced a thin envelope from his jacket, slid it across to Io.

“As your temporary guardian, the MCPSS Middle England office received this just seven o’clock in the morning two days ago,” he said. “That’s the third option.” Io picked it up curiously, slit it open with her fingers, and unfolded it. It was expensive parchment, watermarked with a huge IQA logo, splashed across the page under the writing. 

_Dear Parent or Guardian,_ read the letter.

 _Your child has been chosen for a unique, optional opportunity at the United Kingdom Quidditch Training Academy, funded by the International Quidditch Association. This is a two week course (lodging and food provided) run by referees, retired and working players, and members of the Ministry of Magic’s Department of Magical Games and Sports. Further information will be provided should you give permission for your child to attend, submitted by the deadline of the fourteenth of August this year. Permission form below._

There was another slip of paper in the envelope, a complicated consent form, and Io stared at the letter, utterly shocked.

“They— want me?” was all she could manage. O’Flaherty straightened his tie and leaned back in his chair.

“Apparently.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Someone must have recommended you,” O’Flaherty said, dryly. “As I understand it, your friend Mr Potter also got in, after being scouted at your school Quidditch match. He’s discussing his letter in the living room with his parents.” Io stared at the letter, utterly dazed. Then, something occurred to her.

“This is a loophole,” she said, looking up. “Technically, they would only be looking after me—“

“—providing lodging and food and care,” O’Flaherty finished. He folded his massive hands over his stomach and looked off into the distance. “So says the law, section twenty-three, article two hundred and ten of the underage act. I’m pretty good at loopholes,” he said, casually, squinting into the sun that was streaming through the kitchen window. Io stared at him. Finally, he looked back at her and rolled his eyes. “Darlin’, I’ve spent more than enough time around you to know that you would fight tooth and nail against being shovelled into care. This just—“ he shrugged— “makes it easier for both of us.”

“I can respect that,” Io said grudgingly, and for the first time, she thought she saw a hint of a smile on O’Flaherty’s face. “Fine. The Quidditch thing, then.”

“I thought you’d be ecstatic,” O’Flaherty said dryly, producing a quill from nowhere and snatching up the consent form. He scribbled down the correct information, then folded it up and stuffed it back inside the envelope.

“I am,” Io realised; her stomach was jumping and buzzing with delight.

“Good,” O’Flaherty replied. “Right, that’s done. Just so long as you stay at Hogwarts until your seventeenth birthday and I keep this—“ he gestured vaguely at the forms on the table— “buried, we’ll be good. No one gives a shit about children, anyway. I’ll mark you down for Lady Esmeralda’s Orphanage, starting on the dot of the Christmas holidays, and you’ll never have to set foot there.”

“Thank you,” Io said quietly, and O’Flaherty snorted, shoving the Orphanage’s form towards her and offering her his quill.

“Glad we could smooth that over,” he said dryly, and he took the Orphanage’s form when Io had finished filling it in. She handed back his quill as well. “That’s me done,” he said, standing with a scrape of his chair. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Brewsam.” He held out a hand, and Io shook it, her fingers engulfed in his palm.

“Wish I could say the same,” Io replied, and O’Flaherty turned to go with a sigh. 

“Have fun playing games, girly,” he said. Io made a face at his back, then felt guilty afterwards. He had just helped her, even if it had been entirely for his own convenience.

“Have fun sitting on your arse,” she replied, just before the door swung shut behind him.

Quidditch! Two weeks of it, with James! Io grinned giddily. This summer was very quickly turning on its head, and she wasn’t upset about that in the slightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quid-d-d-ditch


	10. Ocras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arule takes his test. Io takes hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooooo who’s ready to see Cassidy get shut in PRISON for forty three years say AYE

“They’re scared, Albus.” 

“I know,” Albus said, gazing thoughtfully out of the window. Minerva resumed pacing the room. Silence fell, cut only by the swish of her shoes against the carpet. There was horrible sort of uncertainty climbing her throat, and the more she looked at Albus, a dark silhouette in the window, lit gruesomely by the dying sun, the more it dug its claws in.

“We will act, then?” she asked, when she could bear the silence no longer.

“Yes,” Albus replied, without moving. After a long, long moment, he bent his head. “Yes, Minerva. We have been acting for eight years.”

“We weren’t quick enough, were we?” she replied. “And it wasn’t enough, Albus, you and your brother and three Ministry wizards—“

“I know,” he repeated softly, but Minerva wasn’t done, the words spilling off her tongue as she lost control of them.

“Then we need allies, Albus, we need missions, we need action—“

“Minerva,” Albus said calmly, and Minerva halted, her heels sinking into the thick carpet. She could feel her heart beating practically out of her chest. Stupid, very stupid. She was in no danger. She, Minerva McGonagall, did not lose her head. “I will call the Order again in two days. We will become a regular occurrence, we will take base, I will give them orders and they will carry them out.” He looked over his shoulder at her, eyes piercing through the dusk. There was none of his usual gleam in them. “You need not worry.”

“ _His_ side are gaining confidence,” Minerva managed, throwing the words into the air, twisted.

“Yes,” Albus replied, turning back to the window. “But we would be wise not to split this down the middle just yet. There are other forces, unconsidered factors...” he trailed off. Minerva supposed she would be getting no more sense out of him. Clearly, he was lost in thought. “You have delivered the Hogwarts letters?” he asked, sharply. 

“Yes,” she replied, slightly taken aback.

“Good. Would you— send a letter for me?”

“To whom?”

“The Department of Magical Transportation,” Albus replied. “I have a contact there. I have a feeling that we will need a few Portkeys.” She turned this over in her head for some time, and Albus carried on glaring out of the window, stiff and frozen.

“Alright,” Minerva said. “I’ll...get some parchment.”

†††††††††††††††††††††

He knew they were angry. As they stepped into the hall, the atmosphere was thicker than a storm, and his father flung his cloak at Kreacher and stalked into the drawing room. His mother offered him a nasty glance, then jerked her head down the hall and she, too, strode into the drawing room. Sirius’s heart sank, and he took as long as possible undoing the clasp of his cloak. His fingers were starting to shake. 

Regulus arranged his cloak on the stand instead of chucking it at Kreacher, long, pale fingers ever so careful.

“‘Reg—“ Sirius croaked, but before he could say anything, Regulus had flown up the stairs like a wraith. Sirius was left alone in the greenish hallway, Kreacher leering up at him. “Go away,” Sirius snapped. Kreacher bowed and moved off, muttering something under his breath. Sirius squared his shoulders, his neck aching, and made his way miserably to the drawing room.

†††††††††††††††††††††

Rookwood Apparated him to a wood, spindly saplings with fresh green leaves, no higher than Arule’s shoulder. There was dry soil underfoot, hot sun overhead, and beyond the saplings, the trees got taller and thicker and closer together until they merged into a sort of murky green dark. 

They walked among the saplings for a while, changing direction every now and then, brushing leafy branches out of their faces. The sunshine blazed on, and soon, the back of Arule’s neck was burning, and he was sweating, damp down his back. The ground started to incline, a steady slope that burned in Arule’s calves and his lungs.

“Where are we?” Arule asked, finally, as Rookwood held back a sapling for Arule. The trees were getting taller, leaves closing in overhead. It was like walking into a low, leafy greenhouse. Arule wiped sweat off his upper lip.

“Ireland,” Rookwood said, easily. Arule blanched, almost tripped, utterly taken aback.

“ _Ireland_?” he exclaimed. Rookwood didn’t answer that time. Still burning with questions, Arule stared hopelessly at Rookwood’s broad back, but he’d learnt by now that peppering these people with all his queries was not the way to go about it. Either they told him, or they didn’t. He hated it.

The trunks around them started to thicken, the width of Arule’s arm, then his neck, his thigh, until they were barrel-round and wider than his torso. It darkened, too, and Arule had to keep close to Rookwood to see where he was going.

On and on they trudged, Arule’s hair damp on his forehead, still that strangely bare soil underfoot, the air thick and green and hot. Up and up the steady slope.

Then Rookwood stopped, so suddenly that Arule thumped into his solid back and rebounded off it, sitting down heavily on the hard ground. He blinked up, through the murk, and Rookwood was squinting forwards into the trees. Arule peered around the knot of Rookwood’s knee and saw nothing of note: more trees, more soil, more gloomy green shadows.

“This is it,” Rookwood growled. _This is what?_ Arule thought snippishly. He was hot, exhausted, dirty, and irritated, and Rookwood’s broad back was giving him no answers. The trees pressed in on them, swelteringly green.

Rookwood thrust out a hand without looking over his shoulder, presumably to stop Arule from stepping forwards, but Arule was still struggling to his feet and dusting off his trousers.

“See the line?” Rookwood said, in a low voice. Arule squinted past Rookwood’s broad shoulders, scanning the soil grumpily and—

—there. A dent in the bare ground, a tiny trench running in a very wide curve, disappearing off into the trees either side.

“I see it,” Arule said, carefully. He did a quick think, a trail of some sort, the track of some creature, the drag of a stick in the soil, but none of these seemed plausible.

“Fairy circle,” Rookwood grunted. Arule frowned. He was no great shakes at Care of Magical Creatures, but he’d assumed, up to this point, that fairy circles were the little rings of mushrooms that Muggles wandered into and got lost in, lured away by the bright, vain creatures. “Not like in England,” Rookwood said quietly, like he was reading Arule’s mind. “Remember, fairies vary from place to place. Those twinkly little things in forests over the sea—“ he shook his head derisively “—harmless. You get over here, and you’ve got tricky leprechauns, up to your ears in Hinkypunks and Doxy nests and those awful Kelpies. Magical creatures get nasty over here in wild Ireland.”

“So what are we doing?” Arule asked, following the line with his eyes until it disappeared into the darkness between the tree trunks.

“Just wait,” Rookwood said. 

So they waited. The sun climbed overhead, a bright jewel through the canopy above, and Arule wiped his damp forehead dry again and again, his shirt sticking to his back. Rookwood, cloaked and robed and booted though he was, didn’t seem bothered by the heat.

Finally, _eventually_ , when the sun was lower and orange and bleeding weakly through the trunks of the trees and Arule’s bottom was sore from the hard ground, Rookwood made a sharp intake of breath, and Arule shot to his feet, thoroughly restless.

“They’re here,” Rookwood growled, glaring past the fairy line.

“Who’s here?” Arule asked, blinking sweat out of his eyes and shaking off drowsiness. 

“You’ve got the pendant?” Rookwood asked. Arule touched it, flat against his sternum, and Rookwood nodded to the empty woods past the line. Arule craned his neck, but all he saw were more tree trunks, more sleepy, hot green light. “Go on, then.”

“Go on _what_?” Arule asked angrily, frustration bursting out. “You haven’t told me a damn thing!”

“You have to trust me, boy. This is the test. You do it. Step over the line, and don’t look over your shoulder until you see them.” Arule opened his mouth again, but Rookwood held up a large hand. “I can’t tell you more, not ‘til it’s done.” He glanced at the trees, and just when Arule thought Rookwood was dropping his guard, becoming a little scared, even, there was a broad hand on Arule’s back, and Rookwood pushed him over the line.

Arule stumbled, toes scuffing the dirt, and he almost fell, righting himself just in time. He brushed himself off with a scowl, about to turn and give Rookwood a piece of his mind for once, but then he looked up and gaped instead.

The endless trees and the thick canopy had vanished, and Arule was standing in soft, spongy moss, with multicoloured flowers blooming every few inches. All around him, blue sky domed and stretched over the world, clean and smooth and uninterrupted. The sun was a low, bloodied glow, and the ground sloped away slowly on all sides, dropping down to lush rolling fields. Not a sapling in sight, and directly across from this hilltop, another huge mound swelled, bright with flowers, too. The air was pleasantly cool and still, and a rich perfume of petals and nectar was wafting past his face.

For a long, long moment, Arule simply goggled, turning in a slow circle to take it all in, totally overwhelmed by the beauty, the brightness, the wonder of it all.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he spun, his heart kicking up in an instant, suddenly remembering why he was here. The test.

Arule turned to face someone, a someone about as tall as his shoulder, with leaf-shaped ears, little points at the back, green hair like swathes of ivy brushing brightly-clothed shoulders, brilliant, brilliant eyes, every colour of the rainbow, green-tinged lips and pale emerald skin. Disturbingly, though, jarringly, the beautiful apparition sported jagged teeth, long canines, the incisors bright white and ever so slightly pointed.

Arule tried to speak (what would he have said? Hello?), but no sound came out except for a sort of shocked grunt. The creature grinned, wide, and their molars were sharp, too.

“Dia dhuit,” they said. “Hello. Little wizard.” Arule blinked at them. A voice like silk surely couldn’t come out of a mouth that sharp.

“I’m Arule,” he gulped.

“I know. You’ve come to be tested.”

“I— yes. Where— where am I?”

“Dá Chích na Morrígna,” they said. “This is a holy place. The old Queen’s hills.”

“Um,” Arule managed. Those swirling eyes were dizzying, empty and bursting with life both at the same time. “Yes. Okay. I came— yes, to be tested.” He cleared his throat, trying to find his words. “What do I have to do?” The creature studied him for a moment, not blinking, and Arule saw with a shock that they had no eyelids. Finally, they leaned away, the smile fading a little.

“Sit down,” they said. “The test can be...taxing.” A smile, wicked this time, played around the corner of their green-tinged mouth. Arule obediently sank down, but before he got to the floor, his thighs hit something hard and he twisted, utterly confused. There was a flat rock beneath him that hadn’t been there before, but it was warm from the sun like it had been sitting there all day. The creature had turned away, and was doing something with nimble hands. Arule looked them up and down; they were wearing some sort of thin robe, made of no material he could place. It looked as light as gossamer, yet completely opaque and shining like pure molten silver. “We do not wear clothes,” they said, as if reading his mind. Then they grinned again, quick and flighty over their shoulder. “But I did not want to shock you, little wizard.”

 _Little._ They barely came up to his chin.

They turned back around, and in one hand, they had a slender blade with no handle, a silvery shard, so thin it was almost translucent, and in the other hand they held a small mushroom, brown, pointed cap, a little shrivelled.

“Magic mushroom,” Arule said, without thinking. That was what the Muggles called them, psilocybin mushrooms that induced hallucinations. Psychedelics. To Arule’s surprise, the creature laughed, a sound like powdered glass.

“Magic mushroom,” they repeated, almost mocking. “Yes. So called by the Neamhchríochnaithe.”

“Muggles,” Arule said, catching on. The creature twisted their lip.

“Hold out your arm, little wizard,” they said, beckoning with green fingers. Instead of nails, they had little black talons, and Arule suppressed a shudder. He held out his arm, slowly rolling up his sleeve. His skin was very pale in the light of the dying sun. He was sure it hadn’t been this late when he had arrived. “Do you know why you are here, _Ocras_?” they asked, the knife sparking wickedly in the light. It took Arule a second to realise that they were talking to him.

“I— yes.” 

“No, you don’t.”

“It’s for a test. For— whatever the pendant is for,” Arule said petulantly. To be honest, he was blind to most of what had been going on for the last five months. But he knew enough. At least, he thought he did. The creature’s eyes flickered to the pendant, safe beneath his shirt, and Arule felt suddenly itchy, like that multicoloured stare was lifting up his skin.

“I will explain,” the creature replied, more of a statement than a reassurance. And then the knife flashed down and slit open Arule’s arm, so quick he barely had time to register it. Blood spilled from the small wound, strikingly red amongst the brilliant colours of this new world, and Arule gasped and pulled his arm back. The creature grabbed his wrist, talons digging into his palm, and held him still. They stared hungrily at the cut. Arule waited, his arm stinging. “So...” the creature hissed, finally. The sky was darkening now, orange and red bleeding into blue. It had all happened so quickly— Arule felt dizzy. They raised their eyes to meet his, and a shock wriggled down Arule’s throat, staticky and thick. “You _are_ one of hers,” they whispered.

“One of whose?” Arule croaked. His mouth was dry. He hadn’t realised it, but he was scared. He was very alone.

“Morrígan,” said the creature, and they let go of Arule’s arm. He yanked it back to his side.

“My name,” Arule said. But there hadn’t ever been that lilt or accent in the word. Morrigan-Brewsam. The creature took a slow step back.

“Phantom Queen,” they said, in a low voice, staring blindly out at the quick sunset. “Foreseer of doom or victory. Welcome home, little wizard.”

“Home?” Arule asked, his voice higher than he would have liked.

“You came to see if you carry her spirit, her gift,” they hissed. “I wonder, what wars do the Bronnadh seek now? Glory? Land?”

“Purification,” Arule replied quietly. They were talking about Rookwood and the Death Eaters, he knew they were. The creature giggled, uncannily close to that of a child’s laugh.

“How fickle,” they said, staring unblinkingly at Arule. “Madness, utterly. You never can be satisfied.” Arule flinched. He knew they were talking about the purists, but somehow, those words seemed personal. “Can you, little wizard? Ocras?” That name again. So it _was_ personal.

“I want to do the test,” Arule said, braver than he felt. 

“Don’t you want to know why?” crooned the creature, lifting their lip, revealing gums black like a wolf’s. Arule suppressed a shudder. 

“Yes,” he said. “That too.”

“Good.” They handed over the mushroom, abrupt, and Arule took it. It was warm against his palm. No ordinary mushroom, though; he could feel the burn of some kind of magic sizzling over it. It felt old, ancient. “Morrígna is sometimes the name for the three sisters. Badb. Macha. Anand; Morrígan. Sometimes Nemain. The names do not matter. The legend does not matter.” They waved a vague, clawed hand. “Morrígan is the Phantom Queen, one of the first to have the gift of Sight, so say the Bronnadh. The foresight to tell, in a battle, who may win and who may lose.” _Oh_ , Arule thought. This was what Rookwood wanted. To know if they would win. Wasn’t that what they all wanted? “You are one of hers,” the creature said, and Arule’s stomach gave a funny jolt. The creature was staring hard at him. “You have her name.”

“Morrigan,” Arule said slowly.

“One of the Eriu.”

“But we’re— the Morrígan was Irish, weren’t— right? We’re Welsh,” Arule said. He felt decidedly out of his depth, the pendant warm against his skin, this terrifying creature bearing down on him, backlit by the violent sunset.

“You are not,” said the creature, sharply. “You ran, as I recall, when the Neamhchríochnaithe began to hunt you down. You fled to bury yourselves across the sea.”

“But I—“

“Take the test,” the creature cut in, sounding dangerously bored. “The sun is sinking.” Arule almost protested, but they glared, and nodded to the mushroom in his hand. Almost immediately, he raised his palm to his mouth. He wanted to eat it, needed to, desperately; Arule tipped it into his mouth, swallowed the mushroom, and the world went white—

†††††††††††††††††††††

“I’m giving you Jugson,” Crickerly said, only her reddened forehead visible behind a tower of parchment. It was sweltering in her office, and Alastor had a feeling Magical Maintenance hadn’t yet been given that pay rise.

“We don’t need Jugson,” Bennet said. “Just because Dawlish couldn’t handle—“

“Dawlish was doing perfectly fine!” Crickerly snapped. “I gave you Jugson, and you’ll have him, and that’s all I’ve got to say. Get out.” They left, Bennet looking mad rather than abashed.

“Stupid woman,” she growled, as the door clicked shut behind them.

“Jugson’s alright,” Alastor said, unhelpfully. “He’s got duelling skills, he has.”

“Do we need more duelling skills?” Bennet grumbled.

“I’m flattered.”

“I was talking about me,” Bennet said, with a slow grin. Alastor punched her on the shoulder. 

“Hi,” someone said from right behind them, and they both jumped and turned, hands on their wands. Jugson stepped back, hands up.

“Oh,” Alastor said, relaxing. “You.” His heart was going embarrassingly fast.

“Crickerly said I was being tagged on to the Morrigan-Brewsam case,” Jugson said, looking mildly pleased. All in all, Jugson was a fairly mild, solid person, dark hair, muddy eyes, an abnormally small nose, and long arms. Alastor had no strong feelings about him, either way. He seemed like a dependable guy.

“Sure,” Bennet said. “Want us to catch you up to speed here, or on the way to London to do a bit of snooping around?”

“Snooping sounds good,” Jugson replied. 

“It does, dunnit?” Bennet said, looking appeased for the first time in a good long three weeks. Alastor hid a smile. Bennet was notoriously hard to please, and Jugson seemed to have grown on her without even trying.

†††††††††††††††††††††

“There’s another Auror outside, Io dear,” Effie called wearily up the stairs. Io, who was busy stuffing a bag full of her school Quidditch robes and some sports kit, looked up. James, lounging comfortably on her bed, threw a throw pillow lazily across the room, and Io ducked reflexively, letting it sail past her head.

“What the hell do they want this time?” Io growled, getting up. A sock fell off her knee.

“Want me to come with?”

“What, you tired of not getting all the attention?” Io teased, and James grinned, hopped off the bed, and followed her downstairs.

Io opened the door, ready to give Moody an earful for bothering her again, but when the door swung open, it wasn’t Moody lounging on the garden path with his hands in his pockets.

“You,” Io said rudely. Dawlish looked down at her, his lip curling.

“Hello,” he said.

“What do you want?” James asked, over Io’s shoulder. Dawlish raised his eyebrows.

“Double act, huh?”

“ _What do you want_?” Io repeated. Dawlish flicked his robes aside and produced a badge, embossed with a silvery Ministry of Magic crest. Underneath it were written his name, his profession, and his department. Io ignored the badge, sensing that Dawlish had wanted to show some authority.

“I’m here on behalf of the Ministry,” he said, coolly. “You’re mother’s being taken to Azkaban this evening to start her sentence.”

“And?” Io growled, a cold feeling growing in her stomach, despite the sun shining past Dawlish’s head at her.

“And you’ve been given the chance to give her a last goodbye,” Dawlish replied.

“Lucky me.”

“Indeed.” He sighed, stuck his hands in his pockets, and looked down his nose at her. “I can come to pick you up at five o’clock to day, or I can’t. Your decision.” Io scowled at him, a brave front, but her stomach was crawling with what felt like hundreds of live cockroaches all of a sudden. Did she want to? Had the trial not been enough? There were still questions she had, though. Daisy, her father, Arule and his disappearances. Her mother might only sit and sneer, or she might feel that her freedom of experience was coming to an abrupt end. She might want to torture Io just a little longer, and Io could deal with that if it meant she got to see her mother in chains. She could do it. 

Io looked back up at Dawlish and set her face.

“Yes,” she muttered. Dawlish put a hand behind his ear, cocking his head sideways mockingly. “Please,” Io mumbled, at a great blow to her pride. Dawlish, looking extremely satisfied, turned on his heel and marched back down the garden path without so much as a goodbye. Io watched him go, thinking about her mother, her last hours before Azkaban and the Dementors. Her face grew hot with the sunshine and the unease coiling in her stomach.

No. She would not allow her mother to do this to her. She would face her, straight-backed and fierce, and she would be everything her mother had never wanted her to be. 

An idea sparked in Io’s head, and a slow, spiteful smile started to creep across her face.

“Prongs,” she said, over her shoulder.

“Hm,” James grunted, still glaring after Dawlish.

“You think Casper’s, down in town, is still open?” James looked at her, blinked.

“Don’t see why not,” he said. “Why do you want to go to a piercing parlour— _oh_ ,” he said, catching on. A grin spread over his face, matching Io’s insane look. “Oh, _yes_.”

†††††††††††††††††††††

Her mother was shackled to a chair when they opened the door to her cell. Io stood in the doorway. Her septum stung a little, her eyes had been watery for the hours since the piercing, but the second Io saw her mother’s face, she knew it had been worth it. A man named Fauche stepped in at her shoulder, plus one of the Watchwizards.

“What the hell have you done to your face?” her mother sighed. Io allowed herself a grim little smile.

“I knew you wouldn't like it.” Her heart was going a mile a minute, but she could keep her head. She could.

“And you’ve come to...” her mother tilted her head. “What? What are you doing here, Iona?”

“Give you hell in your last few minutes of freedom,” Io said savagely. She tossed her hair. “Also, to ask you a question. Or eight.”

“I’m all ears,” her mother replied dryly.

“Are you all answers?”

“That remains to be seen. You sound like your dirty rich granddad. Must be the Slytherin in you.”

“What’s going on with Daisy?” Io asked, ignoring the jab. Her mother’s eyes flickered to Fauche and the Watchwizard. Io turned. “You can go,” she said. Fauche looked apprehensive.

“Actually, we’re meant to—“

“You don’t have to be here,” Io cut in. “You can go.” They shrugged, and left. The door shut loudly, sounding too much like a slam, and Io had to bite her tongue and fight off a wave of dizziness, nausea, anxiety, before she turned tentatively back to her mother.

“Nicely done,” her mother said. Io felt a little tinge of pleasure, and then a rush of shame. Praise? She didn’t want it. She shouldn’t want it.

She so rarely got it.

“Daisy,” Io demanded roughly. If she said anymore, staring right at her sharp-eyed mother, nothing between them, she’d be sick.

“I don’t know where she is. Your father squirrelled her away when he learnt what she could do, before any of us.” She was surprisingly open. Io tried not to be suspicious, but it was hard.

“What can she do?” Her mother raised an eyebrow.

“Hopefully, see the future,” she replied. Io let out a dry laugh.

“Right, and—“

“I’m not lying, girl,” her mother said sharply. Io frowned.

“Why are you so...”

“Open?” Her mother shrugged, looking perfectly at ease, but Io could see a sheen of worry underneath that facade. “They take me down, they come with me.”

“Why not tell the Aurors?” Io asked. Who was they? There was too much to unpack here.

“Because I know you’re ruthless,” her mother said, hungrily. Io’s stomach twisted. “I know if anyone wants to take down that lying bastard, it’s you.”

“You don’t know a thing about me,” she said roughly, before she could stop herself. Her mother laughed, humourlessly, and Io felt a flash of anger.

“Oh, yes I do. I know you better than you know yourself.”

“Who?” Io asked, struggling to stay on topic. “Who’s they?” Her mother grinned wildly, a look in her eye that Io didn’t recognise.

“Voldemort,” she hissed, and a chill seemed to settle on the room. 

“Right,” Io croaked. “Why— why would they do this? How? The Blacks rooted for you.”

“I was wrong too many times,” her mother said with a shrug. Careless. Io wanted to shake her, but she was afraid, if she touched that woman, her skin might burn. “But the Blacks were never in on it, not really. He said one thing, I wanted another. So they set my own son on me.” Io gaped. Her mother grinned, clearly enjoying herself. “That’s right, Iona...”

“Arule?” Io gasped. “Arule’s with them?”

“Oh, yes. For months, now. I only had to give him a little taste of the comprehension, the knowledge that might come with this power.” _Months_. She’d been wrong to put faith in him. But she’d been so sure she could trust him, from the incident in the little room above the Grand Staircase, poring over Dad’s letter.

He’d warned her to stay away.

“What power?” Io asked roughly. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Morrígan,” her mother said, simply. “That’s our name, isn’t it? Irish line. Right back to the Phantom Queen.” The what? Io shook her head.

“We’re Welsh. It’s a pure blood Welsh family.”

“Irish refugees,” her mother drawled. “Ran from the witchhunts set upon us by the Muggles, the English invaders. Immersed themselves in Welsh underground magic community. They didn’t want their line traced back, not to such a terrible, bloodied, war-strewn figure.” Her mother was enjoying herself, clearly, but Io’s head was reeling. “The Phantom Queen, Mór-Ríoghain, had the power to foresee the result of battles, of war,” her mother carried on, eyes glittering. “We carry her spirit in us, Iona. One of you children has it.”

“You think it’s Arule,” Io said, comprehension dawning. “Dad and...and _him_ think it’s Daisy.” They wanted to know who would take victory, whether the purists would succeed and begin their purge, or whether others would rise up and triumph. The dizziness was whirling now. She wanted something to hold onto. 

There was a little voice in the back of her mind, though, one she tried to squash, because she didn’t _need_ —

 _Why not me_?

Why had no one thought of her? Or Gale, for that matter.

“Feeling left out?” her mother said slyly, and Io shook the thought away. She didn’t need anyone’s validation, and certainly not her mother’s. “We never saw it in you. Then you got tangled up with that Mulciber boy and his expulsion and all those Mudbloods dying all over the place—“

“Don’t say that,” Io snapped, but her mother wasn’t listening.

“—and we knew you were far too much trouble, especially if you had the Sight. If you already knew what would happen, why were you asking all those questions?” Her mother grinned. “Not exactly a loss, though.” Io let a bolt of rage slip through her head. But she would not lose her cool.

“You’re very helpful,” Io said shakily. “I would have thought you’d rather cover for your evil friends.”

“Well, I’m not giving you names, am I?” her mother replied, grinning. “Besides, it’s nothing they don’t already know. It’s just a fair game now.”

“You don’t believe in fair,” Io spat. Her mother shrugged.

“I suppose not.”

“So you’re getting in your kicks before you’re marched off to rot in prison?” Io asked. A glint faded from her mother’s eye, and she smiled, a little sadly.

“Easier to let it burn,” she replied. Soft. 

Io had had enough, and she turned to go.

“Iona,” her mother called, and she froze. Waited. Nothing.

“What do you want?” Io snapped, over her shoulder.

“You shouldn’t hold your family in such high regard,” her mother said.

 _Dirty rich Granddad_.

 _They set my own son on me_.

“I’m beginning to see that,” Io replied bitterly. But— she turned, fully. “What do you mean?” Her mother grinned with the air of one cradling a large bombshell.

“You’ve heard about Morrigan,” she said. “Don’t you want to know about Brewsam? Your dull-blooded grandfather?”

“Spit it out, if you want,” Io replied, wearily. She had a feeling her mother was telling her this just to hurt her. But now she wanted to know.

“Dirty rich,” her mother hissed. “Not a family fortune, girl. You wonder why he took the inheritance from Sage, but never gave it to Kent? Because he doesn’t have it anymore.” Io blinked at her.

“What?” she blurted. But her mother was settling back in her chair, eyes falling closed, and Io frowned. “What?” she pressed.

“Easier to let it burn,” her mother muttered to the ceiling, grinning insanely. 

Io could get no more out of her.

She watched, later, as the Aurors marched her mother into a black carriage, thick-walled, bars on the window. Bound for Azkaban. Io watched the door close on her mother’s pale, ghostly face, and something gave inside her.

Like pulling a hook out of a ring, like letting go, finally, and falling from the mountainside. The carriage pulled away, and Io thought of the Phantom Queen and Daisy and Arule and all the fire that was yet to burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god we’re rid of her and its so late and i’m Wearing a beret never forget this moment, where i stayed up for three hours straight and wrote this omg i rly need to pee
> 
> Comment and kudos are my fuel :) have a nice day and don’t forget that Irish mythology is the sickest thing ever
> 
> (@carloabay on Tumblr)


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